


Two of Six

by silverwhittlingknife



Series: A Thousand Ninjas [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Detective Comics (Comics), Nightwing (Comics), Red Robin (Comics), Robin (Comics)
Genre: Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Gen, I tried to keep all the characters sympathetic including Bruce even though Canon Bruce you guys, Jason and Damian show up but aren’t the focus, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Unreliable Narrator, in all of comics history they only hug twice, missing scenes from canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:13:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 29,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28370688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverwhittlingknife/pseuds/silverwhittlingknife
Summary: There’s nothing special aboutthiskid, no reason to remember him.  But Dick remembers.  Because of the photo.Dick and Tim’s pre-nu52 relationship, from the beginning all the way to the end.or: how Dick acquired a stalker, attempted to make him go away, and failed so badly that he acquired a brother instead.(So far: missing scenes from childhood, Lonely Place of Dying, Knightfall, and Knightsend.  Current arc: Prodigal.)
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson
Series: A Thousand Ninjas [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2126484
Comments: 162
Kudos: 284





	1. Childhood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick Grayson meets Tim Drake. And promptly forgets him. And meets him again. And forgets him again.

_In the beginning, there were six people in the photo. Two fell to their deaths. One was poisoned. One was stabbed._

_And two of them lived._

* * *

The kid sticks in his mind for years. 

Not because he’s interesting. He’s not. He’s just a kid. Dick’s met lots of other kids—city kids, that is, not other circus kids, ‘cause there aren’t many of _them_. But city kids, sure. Dick’s met a million city kids. He’s done so many pre-show walkarounds he could do it with his eyes closed _and_ on his hands. And there are always lots of kids. Crying kids and excited kids and shy kids and grumpy kids. Kids from a million different cities with a million different accents. 

There’s nothing special about _this_ kid, no reason to remember him.

But he remembers. Because of the photo.

It’s the last photo Dick has of his parents. Less than an hour before they died. But it’s not _just_ Dick and his parents. It’s Dick, and his parents, and another kid, and _that_ kid’s parents.

So it’s Dick and his dead parents, and the other kid and his living ones.

Dick doesn’t remember the kid’s name anymore, but some days, he stares at the photo and hates this stupid other kid and his stupid face and his stupid smile. Hates him utterly and completely.

It’s not _fair_.

* * *

It’s Christmas, and Dick’s parents are dead, and Bruce is mad because he went for Freeze a little too fast and hurt his ankle, and Dick’s not allowed to be Robin for a _whole two weeks_ , are you even serious. 

And it’s snowing outside so it’s really really cold and Dick’s, okay, shivering a bit.

But he’s not gonna go back inside because Bruce is having a party for all his rich people friends, and Dick already stuck it out for a _whole hour_ , getting his cheeks pinched and listening to people tell him how _lucky_ he is. 

And calling Bruce his dad, which he’s _not_ , ‘cause Dick’s dad is—‘cause Dick’s dad isn’t—

Bruce can be his _partner_. That’s okay. Bruce gets that, normally, so _probably_ he’s not gonna be mad that Dick yelled at that lady and left the party. Probably. Maybe. Except he’s already mad about the ankle, so.

Maybe if Dick’s real lucky no one will tell him. Bruce was in the other room and he’s _real_ distracted probably, ‘cause Selina’s there too.

The door opens and Dick swings around ready to argue but it’s not Bruce, it’s a kid. One of the rich kids. He’s holding a plate, kinda awkwardly. A little kid. Seven years old, or six maybe. Bruce would know.

“I,” the kid says. “I, um. Are you okay?”

Dick glares at him. “Yes.”

The kid’s staring real hard, probably ‘cause Dick’s eyes are still red from the sniffling. ‘Cause it’s cold out here, that’s why. The kid takes a nervous step forward like he’s gonna try to—to—to _something_ , and Dick steps back.

“What do you _want_ ,” Dick says, kinda mean, but this is _his_ house, sort of. Bruce’s house. Bruce’s porch. “The party’s in _there_.”

“You forgot your plate,” the kid says, holding it out.

Oh yeah. “Thanks,” Dick says, grudgingly.

The kid shrugs, doesn’t smile. He looks real serious. And little. And—nervous, maybe? Maybe he came outside ‘cause somebody yelled at _him_. Now Dick feels bad about wishing him off the porch.

They just eye each other for a bit. He looks real familiar, but Dick can’t place him at all. He can’t be one of the kids from school, he’s too young. Somebody’s little brother? He could ask, maybe, but it’s better not. Just in case it’s _Robin_ who met the kid, not Dick.

“You can stay if you want,” Dick says. “I’m gonna go back inside, so.”

He doesn’t wait to see if the kid nods. Just pushes the door and heads in. None of the fancy rich people turn when he comes in, they just keep talking to each other. That’s good.

Wow, it’s a lot warmer inside. His hands feel kinda tingly. 

He should probably go find Bruce. Or Alfred. Definitely Alfred. Alfred said he’d put some hot chocolate in the kitchen for after the party. It’s not after the party yet, but maybe Dick can convince him.

Dick goes to find Alfred, and it all works out okay. Alfred _does_ have hot chocolate. The party ends, eventually. Nobody tells Bruce about the yelling, or at least he doesn’t mention it.

He _still_ can’t remember where he saw that kid before.

Finally he asks Alfred. Alfred always knows all the guests. It’s hard to describe the kid ‘cause Dick didn’t pay real close attention, but there weren’t a lot of young kids, and Alfred thinks it might be the kid that came with Mr. and Mrs. Drake. The Drakes live nearby, so that’s probably where Dick saw him before. 

It’s strange, living in the same place all the time. Not like traveling with the circus at all. Here, it’s always the same people all around, even though Dick doesn’t know them. Dick could’ve seen the kid anywhere. Maybe he was next in line to Dick and Alfred at the supermarket. Or at the park, that time when Dick went to help the little kids with the swings. Or in the stands when Bruce and Dick went to that ball game.

Just... around.

It’s kind of a relief to know. For a moment Dick was worried he’d seen the kid as _Robin_. That maybe the kid was in trouble, or had been in trouble, or needed help, and _that_ was why he was on Dick’s porch, looking nervous. 

It made Dick feel awful, not knowing if he’d missed something real important, just because he was sore about Bruce and the yelling lady.

But it’s okay. Just a neighbor kid, that’s all. Nobody important.

* * *

The Teen Titans are watching movies tonight, but is _Dick_ with them? No. No, he is not. Dick is stuck in Gotham at the world’s most boring party—the annual Wayne Holiday Gala. 

Bruce is in full Brucie Wayne mode, which means he’s insufferable. Little clusters of rich people are dotted all around, clucking about investments and downturns and what a _shame_ it is that the traffic’s been so bad after Clayface wrecked half of downtown.

Dick was _really_ tempted to ditch the party no matter _what_ Bruce said, but Alfred made his disapproving face, so instead Dick’s making the rounds welcoming people, with his best fake smile and his best firm handshake.

Old guy, maybe fifties, suit and tie, the whole deal. 

“Hey, thanks for coming, I’m Dick Grayson.”

They shake hands. He thinks Bruce should invest in wheat, something something something, Dick’s already tuning it out. He makes his excuses. Okay, who next?

Ooh. A very pretty lady.

“Hey, thanks for coming, I’m Dick Grayson.”

… a very pretty lady and her _fiancé_ , turns out. Pity. She giggles when he gives her his best grin, though, so there’s that. The two of them just got engaged, might ask for contributions to the Wayne Foundation instead of gifts, or maybe not, so many good causes, blah blah blah, he nods and keeps the smile going. _Finally_ gets away. 

His nerves are prickling. Someone’s—ah _hah_. Someone’s staring at him. No one dangerous, though—just a kid. _Really_ intense stare, though. The kid mouths something, Dick can’t make out what, so he heads over.

“Hey, nice to meet you, I’m Dick Grayson.”

“I’m, uh, I’m Tim.” Kid looks nervous. “Uh, I was in the hallway, there were some guys, I think they’re—not sure where to put their umbrellas? Maybe you should go help them?”

Is this some sort of crack at their entryway? Does he think Dick’s a valet?

Wait wait wait. Umbrellas.

“I gotta go,” Dick says, “nice meeting you!”

Yeah. It’s the Penguin.

Maybe not such a boring night, after all.

* * *

Bruce kicks him out.

One minute he’s injured, and the next minute he’s out the door, on his own, no Robin, no nothing. It doesn’t feel real. Like he’s losing his family all over again. Only Bruce isn’t dead, he’s just... it’s just…

It’s over, is what it is.

Dick gets a new name and he finds a new city. Nightwing and the Titans will protect New York. That’s enough. It’s more than enough, and if it’s not, Dick will make it be.

After all that time living in one place, it’s strangely easy to cut his ties. It’s not like he ever fit in with Bruce’s crowd of people. He never made friends at school. The novelty of Bruce’s little charity case dried up years ago. Give it a few months, and nobody in Gotham is even gonna remember Dick Grayson.

That’s fine, too.

Dick’s done with everyone and everything in Gotham. If he ever sees anybody from there again, it'll be too soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started writing this for myself because I wanted to get Dick and Tim's canon history straight in my head for a Red Robin fic ... and then it ballooned completely out of control. _Completely._
> 
> Because of the origins, this is sometimes obsessively and unnecessarily canon-compliant (...I did research, you guys), but hopefully it's enjoyable even if you already know the stories it's based on. I've already written scenes through Prodigal (Dick's first time being Batman), so I'll be posting about once a day for a while as I edit them.
> 
> Anyway, I really miss the Dick & Tim brotherly relationship, and one of my favorite parts about it was that it was a slow burn - they start out total strangers and Dick's not friendly when Tim first comes to find him in New York, but over time they become very close. So this will be missing scenes - and some inspired by canon - as we inch slowly toward brotherhood.
> 
> Starting, of course, with the stalker years. 
> 
> Next up: Jason. 
> 
> _ROBIN STILL FLYING: RUMORS OF VIGILANTE’S DEATH PROVE UNFOUNDED_
> 
> _There’s a new Robin. Dick finds out from the newspaper._


	2. Jason

_ROBIN STILL FLYING: RUMORS OF VIGILANTE’S DEATH PROVE UNFOUNDED_

There’s a new Robin. Dick finds out from the newspaper.

He drives to Gotham. He hasn’t set foot in the city for months. Hasn’t even gone near it. Hasn’t talked to Bruce, not _once_. Wasn’t sure he ever would again.

Doesn’t matter.

His _name_. His _name,_ and Bruce gave it away.

Bruce owes him an explanation. Maybe _only_ an explanation - maybe not a place to sleep, or a seat at the dinner table, or anything else anymore - but at the _very least_ , Bruce owes him an explanation.

“I allowed you to pursue your own destiny,” Bruce says stiffly, when Dick corners him alone in the Cave. He doesn’t even _turn around_ , ‘cause the computer’s apparently just that fascinating. “I acted for your own good -”

“For my own good? _Bull!_ ”

When it actually happened, Dick was too frozen to say much. For month after silent month, the words have been building up in his head, everything he _should’ve_ said, everything to make it _perfectly clear_ to Bruce what a _jackass_ he was. He doesn’t want to hear it? Well, _too damn bad._

“Don’t _lie_ to me, Bruce! I _know_ what you were doing. You were angry at me. I _get_ it. I was late, I got hurt, I screwed up! But that was _one time_ , Bruce! One time, and you wrote me off. I’d had your back all those years, but you didn’t care about that, did you? You kicked a great big hole in my life, and you walked out of the room. You left me no choice but to leave. So I did. I went to New York, I -” 

He cuts himself off, presses his lips together. All these months, and Bruce’s heavy presence can still make him feel like a kid, trying to justify himself. But he _doesn’t_ have to justify himself. _Bruce_ does. 

But it’s not Bruce who - _finally_ \- turns around to face him.

It’s Batman.

With the cowl on and deep in the shadows, Bruce’s face is almost impossible to read. He’s in full costume. Dick took his mask off when he started talking, but Bruce hasn’t done him the same favor. Is he angry that Dick’s back? Guilty about exiling him without a word? Annoyed to be disturbed in the middle of a case? Dick doesn’t know.

“Alfred tried to talk me out of it, you know,” Dick says, aware he’s rambling. Nerves. He never used to be nervous around Bruce. “If it wasn’t for Alfred I don’t know what I would’ve done. _He’s_ the one who forced money on me, so I’d have something to live on.” 

Despite himself the last words come out pleading.

“You couldn’t even be bothered to say _goodbye_ , Bruce.”

“I was… involved with a case,” Bruce says, stiff, like even he realizes how much of a _cop-out_ this is. “I didn’t…”

“Sure, Bruce. Whatever you say.”

How can he just _stand there_? Dick should never have come here. He knew better. He _knew better_ , and he still… why did he even...No. He came for an explanation. He is going to _get_ an explanation if it kills them both.

“Bruce,” he says. His voice comes out cold. Good. If Bruce wants to act like an impassive stone wall, _Dick_ can play it that way, too. “Before, you said you couldn’t handle the responsibility of having a partner, but now suddenly it’s all right. I think I have the right to know _why_.”

Long silence, then: “That’s not an easy question to answer.”

“Well, why don’t you take offthat damn mask and give it a try!”

Bruce peels it off slowly, like every second is a concession. But his face is hard as granite. “I taught you everything I could, Nightwing. It was time for you to step out on your own.”

“So you figured the best thing to do was drive me out of your life, right? That’s exactly what you do to anyone who gets too close to you, Bruce! Always hurt them before they get the chance to hurt you! It didn’t matter to you that I didn’t _have_ any life other than the one we shared. It - you -”

For a moment - a _single moment_ \- the hard mask of Bruce’s face actually cracks. He almost looks uncertain. Almost looks _sorry_.

It’s more infuriating than anything that came before.

“Di - Nightwing, I - ”

 _Say my name, you jackass_ , Dick thinks, but what actually comes out of his mouth is, “You’re really some piece of work, aren’t you?”

Things don’t really improve from there.

When Dick storms out, he slams the door.

He will never set foot in this place again. _Never_. Never gonna happen, do not pass Go, do not collect $200. _Never again_.

* * *

He goes to the car but he doesn’t drive back to New York. Not yet. 

Drives around Gotham instead, the familiar landmarks passing in a haze of anger.

He keeps the hot flash of rage burning as long as he can, listing Bruce’s sins to himself, calling to mind every single time he was ever lectured, shut down, ignored. No childhood grudge is too petty. The time Bruce was late picking him up from school on his birthday, the time that Batgirl jumped into a fight too fast but _Dick_ was the one who got scolded, every snide thing Bruce ever said about the Teen Titans when he thought Dick wasn’t listening or when he knew he was - as long as he’s angry at Bruce, as long as he can just stay focused on that, he won’t feel anything else. He doesn’t _want_ to feel anything else. 

He can’t go back to the Tower like this. Not with Raven there, attuned to everyone’s emotions. It wouldn’t be fair to her. _Dick_ doesn’t want to feel this way, but at least Raven won’t have to.

Dick doesn’t want her to know anyway. There’s really no good way to tell your friends that your pseudo-father has disowned you, which is why Dick didn’t really tell them in the first place, just implied that he and Bruce had _decided_ to go their separate ways. And anyway, it’s not _exactly_ like being disowned. The wardship was always gonna expire when Dick turned eighteen. Bruce doesn’t actually need to do anything - just wait until the clock runs out, the way it was always going to.

He keeps the anger going as long as he can, driving in circles, but eventually, all he’s left with is flickering embers and an overpowering sense of being _lost_.

* * *

He parks the car near what looks like some kind of summer street fair, and lets himself get swallowed up by the crowd. The fourth of July is coming up, so that’s probably the occasion, or maybe the kids are just happy school’s out. There are a lot of booths. Families. Some kids are trying to win goldfish, and the atmosphere is low-key, relaxed. He might almost be back in New York.

Only in ritzy Bristol. If you tried this in downtown Gotham, one of the Rogues would show up faster than you could blink.

It’s not the circus, but it’s something. Soothing.

Reluctantly, he finds himself thinking about the new kid. Dick actually met him last night - ran into the foul-mouthed little brat on the rooftops, about to get himself into serious trouble, and when Dick pulled him out of it he didn’t get so much as a thank you. Little punk, little _brat_. It didn’t take him long to start mouthing off: _You’re him, huh? The guy I replaced. Look, you’re over, okay?_

Jason Todd must be about the right age for this festival. Or a little old for it, maybe. Dick’s not sure how old he is. Dick doesn’t know… anything about him.

But he could find out.

Time to do the thing he’s been putting off ever since he saw the _first_ headline. Bruce can’t make a move in this city without the paparazzi following him. _Dick_ may not know who the new kid is… but Vicki Vale definitely does.

He sits on a bench, pulls out his phone, and starts searching online.

The news stories aren’t so much a trickle as an _avalanche_.

* * *

The Gotham Gazette: _WAYNE ADOPTS CRIME ALLEY ORPHAN_

Vue Magazine: _FROM TRAGEDY TO FAMILY: WAYNE’S CRIME ALLEY STORY_

Gotham Five: _NEW WAYNE SON GOES FROM RAGS TO RICHES_

 _Another_ kid straight from juvie, huh, Bruce?

Dick skims the online articles, though he knows better than to take them for truth. The gossip columnists wrote about _Dick_ , back in the day, sickeningly sentimental nonsense pumped out to flatter the Gotham elite, and they were flat-out wrong half the time. But it’s not like he’s going to ask _Bruce_ , is he, so the papers are all he’s got.

_Before he became a billionaire’s son, Jason Todd was just another beggar in Gotham’s poorest neighborhood, sleeping rough on the streets and…_

_Also present at the gathering was Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne’s newly adopted son…_

_Though Mr. Wayne has so far declined to make the boy available for interviews, a trusted source reports that Jason has taken to his new life like a fish to water, both grateful for his new chance at life and determined to live up to the Wayne legacy..._

And so on. It’s tripe.

The back of his neck prickles.

Oh, God, _please_ be something I can punch.

It’s not, of course. Dick can’t get lucky for even a moment, today. 

Not a rogue. Not even a mugger. Just an unsupervised kid half-hidden behind one of the booths, staring at Dick _really hard_. When Dick looks over he goes completely still, eyes wide as a rabbit’s, like he thinks Dick is a T-Rex and freezing in place will make him invisible.

For one _awful_ moment Dick’s afraid he’s Jason. Well, let it never be said Dick Grayson backed down from a fight. He waves.

The kid comes over, very slowly.

“Can I help you?” Dick asks.

“Oh, uh, no,” the kid says. “I mean. I don’t - uh.” The tips of his ears are turning a brilliant red - embarrassed to be caught staring, probably - and he looks ready to bolt. “Hi? Um, nice to meet you?”

That’s not Jason’s voice. This is a _Bristol_ kid. And he’s way smaller than Jason.

Dick’s an idiot. The kid was probably just eying up a stranger and wondering when it’d be safe to go sit on the bench. Not that Dick looks that threatening, but this is _Bristol_ \- anyone who’s not part of the inbred little bunch of Gotham socialites sticks out like a sore thumb.

“You can have the bench,” Dick offers. “I’m leaving anyway.”

“Oh, uh, thanks.” The kid sits down, hunches his shoulders, starts fiddling with a camera and darting nervous looks at Dick. Dick can’t quite place his age - but he’s a bit young to be on his own.

“Hey - are you lost?”

“No. Are you? I mean. I could help you! If _you’re_ lost.” Kid visibly runs the words over in his head again and cringes. “Which, uh, you’re probably not.”

Dick scans him for evidence that he’s not what he seems. His instincts have decided to spark warnings at him again, whispering _watch out_ , throwing up questions like _runaway_ or _pickpocket_ or _scam artist_.Usually Dick trusts those instincts, but...

But there’s nothing here. The kid _can’t_ be a pickpocket, not with that accent, and he’s definitely not an out-of-towner - his vowels scream upper-class old Gotham. Can’t be one of the _really_ old families, or Dick would know him. New money. Exactly the kind of kid you’d expect to find at a Bristol street fair. But too wide-eyed, too nervous, too _jumpy_ , like a startled deer, and why would he be -

Wait. “Where are your parents?”

“They’re in France?” the kid says. “I mean, I think they are. Why?”

“You think they are. You’re not sure?”

“No? What - _oh_.” A sudden, self-conscious laugh. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just - they travel a lot? So they were in France last week. In Paris. Because my dad had a meeting with his firm’s European office to discuss their new, uh, initiatives?” The phrasing plus the uncertainty suggests he’s quoting someone - his dad, no doubt. “And next week they’re going to be in Budapest. For a dig. But I don’t know if they’ve left France yet.”

Right. Bristol kid.

“And, uh, how is _your_ dad? I mean! Not just your dad, ‘cause you might have a mom _and_ a dad. Your parents. How are your par - ” The kid cuts himself off and looks completely mortified. “How are _you_?”

Dick doesn’t have a mom _or_ a dad - and never will again, it seems - so he’s doing _lousy_ , thanks for asking.

“I’m fine, kid. Enjoy the fair, yeah?”

Wide-eyed nod.

* * *

Dick goes to sit in the car instead. Drums his fingers on the wheel.

He has to admit that he is secretly disappointed that the kid wasn’t, oh, a tragic pickpocket, or a victim of trafficking, or basically anybody in need of help, as opposed to a perfectly ordinary rich kid. Who has admittedly slipped the watch of his nanny, by all evidence, but that’s not Dick’s problem. Any kid whose parents are summering in Europe is gonna be just fine at this festival.

 _Might_ be in Paris. Geez. 

Jason must be having a time of it with these kids. Even the well-meaning ones - and to give them credit, they’re mostly well-meaning - can be exhausting. At least Dick had traveled with the circus, could basically hold his own when it came to talk of travel and distant sights. If half the stories in Vale’s article were true, Jason’s never been out of Gotham. They’ll eat him alive.

Though … Jason’s got guts, that for sure. Maybe it’s the _socialites_ who should watch out, not him. That’s not a kid who’s going to let himself get pushed around, not by the likes of the Kanes and Elliots, not by anybody.

He can still hear the kid sneering: _It’s a new world. It’s not all backflips and balance bars. You were good. WERE! But Gotham needs a tougher Robin now._

Brat Wonder.

But. But…

When Dick leaves Gotham the next time, he’s not gonna come back. But first… there’s something he’s gotta do. He’s still got the old Robin costume, _his_ costume, an extra he’d kept at his room in Titans Tower. He keeps resolving to throw it away. Hasn’t been able to bring himself to.

But maybe Jason would want it. Or, well, he _won’t_ want it, but maybe Dick should give it to him anyway.

It’s not like _Dick_ needs it anymore, right?

* * *

Jason is dead.

Jason is _dead_.

A month in space, no missed calls. He finds out from the Titans database. 

He ditches the Titans.

He drives to Gotham. Doesn’t think about it. He’s saying goodbye to Kory and then he’s locking his apartment and then he’s in the car.

It doesn’t seem _real_. 

Mouthy little Jason, mean little punk with a decent uppercut, ready to fight Dick for the Robin costume. Dick gave him his phone number; he never called. Never bothered to get to know him, now it’s too late.

Dick gave him the old costume. It was too big for the kid, and of course he was already _wearing_ a costume, but - it was symbolic, that was the point. No hard feelings. Your costume now, your city, your dad. The city and the dad - those were never Dick’s to give. But the costume, the name. Those were Dick’s. Circus colors, _Grayson_ colors.

Dick gave him the costume and now he’s _dead_.

That means it’s Dick’s fault, right?

* * *

He gets to Gotham. He sees Bruce.

It’s ugly.

He doesn’t even know why he came, really. Why he expected anything else. It’s not like they’ve had anything to say to each other for years. The blur of grief made him stupid, made him forget that he had no place here anymore.

Bruce doesn’t apologize for _not telling him_ about the funeral. Bruce accuses him of resenting Jason. Bruce makes it very, very clear Dick isn’t welcome.

The awful part is… 

Bruce isn’t even wrong, not entirely. He _did_ resent the kid, even if the thought makes him sick now. It’s not like they even _knew_ each other, not really. Dick never _bothered_ to get to know him. He stayed away. So why _would_ he be invited to the funeral?

Bruce doesn’t think Dick really cares, and Jason _definitely_ didn’t think he cared, and maybe they’re not wrong because Dick… _Dick_ didn’t think he cared, either. 

And of course it’s only now, now that it’s far too late, that he realizes he _does_ care, horribly, desperately. He gave the kid the costume and walked away and didn’t realize until _this very moment_ that some part of him had… had _what_? Gotten attached. That some part of his mind had started thinking of Jason Todd as if he… almost as if… 

But that’s not true. Dick Grayson and Jason Todd were nothing to each other. What right does _Dick_ have to grieve for a boy he didn’t even know?

It’s stupid and selfish and self-centered. Bruce is an ass, but his anger.. maybe it’s to be expected. Jason was Bruce’s _kid_. Actually adopted. Dick’s basically a stranger, intruding on his grief.

A family tragedy that Dick has no part of.

He has no right to be here. Maybe he never did.

When he drives away _this_ time, it’s with an aching sense of finality.

He won’t go back to Gotham again.

* * *

Back in New York, he takes a leave of absence from the Titans. 

Moves out of the apartment he shared with Kory. 

He feels strange, distant. Kory’s worried about him. But spending time with the Titans, with Kory, when Jason will never spend time without anyone ever again… he can’t face it. Not now. Eventually, he knows, he’ll need to go back. But he feels numb, like the world is covered in fog, and he knows he needs time.

The cruel thing, he knows, is that it will work. He’ll get over this. In time, the pain of Jason’s death will fade, and everything will go back to normal.

But for now, he pulls away from everyone, and lets himself mourn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dick canonically finds out about the new Robin from the newspapers. Ouch. His shouting match with Bruce about it is in Batman 416 and is very cathartic. He does in fact have to bully Bruce into taking off his Batman mask. Bad Batdad.
> 
> Other comics - seeming to show the scene more from Bruce's point-of-view - suggest that Bruce remembers this moment more as a "Go forth and spread your wings, young man!" moment, as opposed to the rejection that Dick felt. Red Robin has some probably-not-accidental parallels to Dick's firing.
> 
> Jason & Dick have two canon first meetings, and both versions are, uh, less-than-friendly. In Jason's defense, he's feeling pretty threatened, and in Dick's defense, discovering that his sort-of dad replaced him with a new model (and gave him Dick's old name and costume!) is awfully upsetting. I mixed the two versions together here, but some dialogue- "mean little punk," "Brat Wonder," Jason's lines, etc. - is adapted from Nightwing Year One.
> 
> Dick finding out about Jason’s death from the Titans database (!), and being so upset that he takes a leave of absence from the Titans and moves out of the apartment with Kory are also canon.
> 
> Next up:  
> Dick finally meets Tim for real! It's not a great first impression. They will definitely never be friends.
> 
> _Bruce must have known the kid was there. He must have. Bruce can’t be such a mess that he hasn’t noticed a twelve-year-old following him. _


	3. A Lonely Place of Dying 1

The day starts out wonderful. The kind of good day Dick hasn’t had in ages. Haly’s is visiting NYC, Dick is going out of his mind in his miserable apartment, haunted by ghosts and regrets—a walk down memory lane seems like the perfect way to get out of his head. He shows up, they’re glad to see him, even ask him to perform. A breath of fresh air, the sheer exhilaration of being in the air, perfect. Too good to be true.

Then there’s the murder.

Right in the middle of the performance. 

It’s not the same - no lines are cut, no suggestion of the mob - but it gives Dick chills anyway.

And then, of course, there’s the kid.

Climbing around in the trash bins. Scuttling along in the shadows of the cages. Trying - apparently - to solve _Dick’s_ case.

When Dick finally grabs hold of the kid, who’s surprisingly slippery, he gets a bug-eyed stare and then a bunch of wide-eyed babbling about evidence and culprits and suspects, like the kid thinks he’s a mini Sherlock Holmes. 

And the kid tries to convince him that the murderer is Harry, the old clown - which it’s _not_ , Harry _wouldn’t_ \- but the kid is right, weirdly enough, that Harry’s liquor flask was drugged. Dick recognizes the small of nepetalactone - better known as catnip - guaranteed to make the lion tamer’s cats go wild and dangerous. 

Apparently, the kid… decided the lions going crazy was suspicious, snuck out back, went dumpster-diving, and found the flask in the trash. Which. Okay, sure. The chain of deductions makes sense, it’s the _kid_ that’s weird. Surely murder investigations aren’t normal twelve-year-old hobbies. And little Sherlock’s not a circus kid, so it’s totally unclear why he’s even here.

Somebody’s cousin or nephew, visiting from the city?

But he’s got a _Gotham_ accent. Dick would know if anybody in the circus had ties to Gotham.

There’s something seriously off about this kid - his sudden appearance, his attitude, all of it is pinging all of Dick’s alarms - but he’s clearly not the murderer, so he’s low-priority for now. Even if he keeps hanging around, unsettling, just on the edge of Dick’s awareness. Like a bad omen.

(The kid’s got a Gotham accent, and Gotham has never yet brought Dick anything good.)

If Bruce has picked _another_ kid - sent him after Dick with another stupid go-taunt-the-wild-Nightwing challenge, like he did with Jason -

He can’t have. It’s ridiculous. Bruce _wouldn’t_.

Not after Jason. It’s not the same as with Dick. Bruce _loved_ Jason. Bruce is not gonna replace _Jason_. No.

He _knows_ it can’t be true, but he can’t get it out of his head, and it slows him down. Solving the case seems to take forever, but at least he _does_ solve it. Better than nothing. Still not great. If Dick had been more alert, less distracted, less stuck on his own problems, he might’ve worked things out sooner. Say, before anybodygot _killed_.

Dick talks to the police, finishes up with Pop Haly, says his goodbyes. Gets ready to leave.

The kid waylays him. Bicycle, binoculars, big eyes.

Enough is enough. “Who the hell are you?”

The kid hesitates. “I - that doesn’t matter now. I’ve got something you need to look at.” 

He’s been angling to get Dick’s attention all afternoon, but he looks tense now that he’s got it.

“Look, I don’t like games.”

“Neither do I,” the kid says, face set.

He won’t even give his name. Dick doesn’t know who the hell he is or what game he’s playing.

But he finds out.

“I know you’re Nightwing.”

What.

Dick focuses on keeping his expression impassive.

“I know you used to be Robin,” the kid says, undaunted. “Batman needs you. _Look_.”

A manila envelope.

Dick takes it.

He could still blow the kid off. It’s not actually the first time someone’s guessed at the secret—in Gotham, trying to identify Batman and Robin is practically a household game, and Dick never went to the trouble of creating a whole fake persona the way Bruce did. It’s better to just laugh it off, let them convince _themselves_ that they imagined things.

But he’s got an uneasy feeling. _I know you’re Nightwing_. That didn’t sound like a guess. That was _conviction_ , sharp and sure. The kid _does_ know something.

He opens the envelope.

It’s full of photos.

Kid’s an amateur photographer, apparently. With an emphasis on the Gotham fauna. Specifically, _bats_. 

There are only a few dozen photos, but it feels like a thousand. Dick flips through them, stunned, and sees more of Bruce - _Batman_ \- in five minutes than he has in the past year. Batman, bloody. Batman, taking on way too many gunmen at once. Batman, swinging wildly. Batman in _close-up_ , caught in the unforgiving glare of a street light, looking exhausted. 

Dick’s no photographer, but he knows night shots aren’t easy. These ones are sharply-focused, no blur, no wavering. The kid had plenty of time, he had a steady hand, he took the shot. 

If a twelve-year-old could do it, so could a sniper. Bruce could be _dead_. 

Every photo is another potential death. There, seen through the window of a warehouse (was the kid on a _roof_ somewhere?), twisting someone’s arm at an unnatural angle. He could’ve been shot. There, slumped against a wall somewhere in Midtown, gauntlets bloody. He could’ve died _there_. There, near the docks, taking a wild swing at Killer Croc with his back completely exposed to the camera. _Bruce, what are you doing -?_

Okay. So Bruce didn’t send the kid. This is something else. 

Something worse.

But it can’t be what it looks like. Bruce _must_ have known the kid was there. He _must_ have. Bruce can’t be such a mess that he hasn’t noticed a _twelve-year-old_ following him. And it’s not like the kid’s particularly subtle or shy.

So Bruce _must_ have noticed, and … and ignored him, for some inscrutable reason of his own, just let him take a bunch of photos of what looks like a series of frighteningly vicious fights, and… let him leave again. Except that if Bruce was just letting him watch, then how does the kid know their _secret identities_? Is Bruce so out of it that a child was able to _follow him back to the Manor_? Dick _can’t_ believe that. But how else could the kid know?

A trap? Some sort of rogue, taking the photos, giving them to the kid because he seems non-threatening, feeding him the story, using him to lure Dick out in order to… 

To _what_ , though?

The kid’s still talking, wide-eyed and earnest, as if he’s selling soap instead of upending Dick’s entire life. “Dick, don’t you see— he needs you. He needs Robin. You know as well as I do that he hasn’t been acting right since Jason died. He needs you to remind him who he used to be. I’m not sure what went down between you and Bruce - but you owe him something, don’t you?”

The last question is so wildly misguided that it finally kicks Dick into gear. He’d been caught, for a moment, in a trance, stunned by the kid’s frenzied insistence, the painful tug of _he needs you_. If only. It was true, once. They were partners, real partners. 

But it’s nonsense now. Bruce has been _more_ than clear about how little need he has for Nightwing. It’s actually kind of a relief, to realize that the kid detective _doesn’t_ actually have them cold. It’s pretty obvious from this pitch that the kid - or whoever’s pulling the kid’s strings - has misread what’s gone down between Batman and Nightwing, thinks that it’s _Dick_ who picked the fight. Dick who took off instead of Bruce who made him go. That might be a clue to find out what’s _actually_ going on.

No matter what, Bruce needs to know. The secret identities, those photos… whatever plot the kid’s a part of, it’s clearly a carefully-planned one. They’re swimming in dangerous waters.

“You’re coming with me,” Dick decides. “To Gotham.”

* * *

Dick’s mind is a storm of static: jolts of electric panic, dull distant echo of anger, faint buzz of fear. On the highway, the wind roars, buffeting the car.

Forty-five minutes to Gotham.

Dead silence in the car.

Not like _Dick’s_ going to make conversation.

But he’s not alone. In the passenger seat the kid shifts uncomfortably.

Earlier, at the circus, he wouldn’t shut up, but ever since Dick gave in and dragged him to the car, he’s been quiet. Possibly it’s occurred to the kid he shouldn’t have gotten in the car with a stranger. Little late for that.

“Did someone send you here?” Dick asks.

“Nobody sent me,” the kid says. But apparently Dick speaking up was all the encouragement he needed, because now he adds, eyes wide: “Are you going to help him? You are, aren’t you? You _have_ to, Dick. He’s not acting right. He needs _help_. He needs to be with someone he cares about.”

 _Someone he cares about_.

This is _surreal_.

“I read that -” the kid begins.

Never mind. Dick can’t listen to this. “Save it for when we get there,” he says sharply.

He’s not sure it’ll work - not much has cowed this kid - but his voice must’ve been curt enough, because the kid tenses and actually shuts up again.

 _Think,_ Grayson.

The kid. Okay. A rich kid, that’s obvious. One of those rich kids who likes to dress down, but Dick’s a detective; you’ve got to discount the beat-up bike and the worn-out sneakers, and note the state-of-the-art camera and cell phone. Plus the willingness to get in a stranger’s car. Theoretically, a rogue could’ve bribed a street kid with cash and the electronics - but Dick’s dismissing the theory before it’s even fully formed. No, all the kid’s stuff is _his_. 

Dick can still see him out of the corner of his eye, slumped back in his seat, pretending to play with the cell phone while actually darting sideways glances at Dick. 

If any of the stuff was new, the kid would be paying more attention to it. If he was expecting a text or a call from someone who put him up to this, he’d be more cautious with the phone. Instead, the kid’s just eying Dick, like _he’s_ the unpredictable element in this situation.

The kid’s from Gotham, not New York. Dick can’t remember if he actually said so, but it’s obvious. Born and bred, if Dick had to guess - the accent is pure Bristol. He sounds like he walked straight out of one of those awful galas when Dick was a kid. 

He can’t be more than - what, eleven, twelve? Whatever this is, the kid can’t have come up with it himself, unless Bruce is really - unless things are happening which _aren’t happening_. Maybe the kid’s parents are hoping to blackmail Batman, and the kid is just here to put a sympathetic face on it. The kid _sounds_ sincere, but - _he_ doesn’t have to be in on it, either. 

“What’s your name?” Dick asks. “Who are your parents?”

The kid looks wary. “I - it doesn’t really matter.”

“Are you gonna refuse to tell me?”

The kid looks kinda offended. “No. My name’s Tim. Tim Drake.”

It _could_ be a fake name, but _Drake_ rings a bell, actually - Dick’s pretty sure there used to be a Drake Industries building somewhere in downtown Gotham.

“Where are your parents?”

“They’re out of town,” the kid says. “I’m in boarding school.”

Boarding school tracks. Parents out of town… _could_ be a lie, but what would be the point? 

If this is a setup by the parents, it’s incredibly weird. Who entrusts blackmail of _Batman_ to their _twelve-year-old_? Timmy doesn’t even seem to have much of a mission, other than the _Batman needs you_ shtick. When Dick told him to get in the car and shut up, he did.

Okay, so maybe there’s _no_ set-up, just a combination of bad luck and coincidence and a kid jumping to conclusions.

Dick tries the hypothesis out in his head. Doting parents, indulged kid. Bored, wanting adventure, so he starts ditching school to follow Batman around with a camera. Looking for cheap thrills, maybe. Except… except he’s a _rich_ kid, so he’s not used to violence, and he gets a scare one night. Sees a big Batman bust-up, gets anxious. Overreacts. It could easily be an overreaction - those photos _look_ bad, sure, but bad things _happen_. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything. And then Bruce is just careless for a moment - again, it _happens_ \- and the kid follows him home, realizes he’s Bruce Wayne, thinks he’s in trouble, and…

… leaves town and comes to find _Dick_?

Dick doesn’t _want_ to understand the logic. What really hurts is that some part of him _does_. Batman and Robin, the Dynamic Duo… once upon a time _Dick_ thought, too, that … that…

Doesn’t matter.

The kid’s fidgeting. Twitchy. Like he’s barely restraining himself from launching into a speech again.

The secret identity thing has to be addressed. So. So Dick will drive him to the Manor, and drop him off with Bruce, and let _Bruce_ address it. That’s what he’ll do. And that will work. 

Because Bruce is _fine_ , Bruce is _always_ fine, and this is just an anxious kid jumping at shadows. Dick’s… _almost_ sure.

It’ll be fine.

* * *

It’s not fine.

Bruce isn’t at the Manor. Bruce is off fighting Two-Face.

Tim Drake, it turns out, did _not_ find out their identities because he followed Bruce home.

Tim Drake is the little kid from the photo.

 _The_ photo, the last picture of Dick’s parents, the picture he still has in his scrapbook, except he’s not even sure how he feels about it now. It’s weirdly creepy to discover that it also sort of belongs to the crazy stalker kid and _his_ family. 

He feels betrayed by the kid’s claim to it, even though he knows that’s stupid. The other kid was never the _point_ of the picture. Dick’s always tried to ignore the existence of the other family in the photo. They’re background, unimportant. They’re not supposed to really _exist_. This is _Dick’s_ story. He doesn’t want it narrated to him by some random self-important rich kid.

That’s not the worst of it, though. This is: the secret identity thing is _Dick’s_ fault. 

The quadruple somersault, which Bruce was always _complaining_ Dick shouldn’t use too much, was always pointing out it might be too telling, and Dick always blew him off - well, turns out he was right. Recognizable enough for a _nine_ -year-old to get it. The kid recognized the somersault, and then he recognized _Robin_. 

And he’s apparently been stalking them ever since.

Bruce is _not_ gonna be happy.

* * *

Bruce is _still_ not here, and Dick isn’t sure he can stand being around Tim Drake for another moment, so maybe it’s time for Nightwing to go looking for Two-Face.

( _Two-Face_. Because it _had_ to be Two-Face.)

Tim Drake, unable to resist offering his opinion for _five seconds_ , thinks Dick should go out as Robin. Actually tries to thrust one of his old costumes at him.

“Dick, please, take this, it belongs to you!”

“What,” Dick says. It’s the one that Dick was gonna wear, before he got fired. The one Bruce never let him put on. Where did the kid even--

"It's yours,” Tim Drake says, like he has _any idea_. “I thought - "

Dick yanks it away from him. "No! You didn't! That's the problem."

The kid has no freaking clue. The Dynamic Duo, Bruce and Dick, Batman and Robin, father and son - none of that is _true_ anymore. If it ever was. If it was ever real, maybe it was real for _Jason_. Not for Dick.

And it’s definitely not gonna happen _now_. Dick is _never_ going back to that. Being the junior partner. Being Bruce’s kid. Being a _team_. He can’t. He won’t. He _can’t_. It’s infuriating and heartbreaking and _insane_. He’s not a kid anymore. He’s not _Robin_ anymore. 

Even if Bruce _wanted_ him back—which he _doesn’t_ —

Even if Dick wanted to _come_ back—and _he_ doesn’t—

Bruce will never have that kind of power over him again. Never, never, never. Dick can help him as Nightwing, _maybe_ , _tonight_ , temporarily, if Bruce _is_ actually in trouble. But he is _not_ going back to Robin. To Bruce. Not crawling back like that, not _ever_. That’s _not happening_. That’s _never_ gonna happen.

“Sir,” Alfred intervenes, “the lad may have a point. Master Bruce has not been the same since he lost Robin --” He falters. “Since he lost Robin a second time."

And now _Alfred’s_ on the kid’s side? Not been the same since he _lost_ Robin? Like it’s _Dick’s_ fault? Bruce lost _Jason_ , sure, but _Dick_ didn’t get lost so much as _thrown out_.

“It’s true,” Tim Drake says, oblivious. “He needs a partner again. Someone to care about. Someone who cares about him.”

He gives Dick an expectant look, as if _Dick_ ’s the problem here, not _Bruce_.

Unbelievable. The snotty little _brat_. “That man raised me. I've gone through hell with him and _because_ of him. Don't _lecture_ me about him until you've cared for him and loved him as long as _I_ have!”

He’s so furious that he doesn’t really realize that he’s been shouting until he notices the tears on the kid’s face - and his fingers are digging into the kid’s shoulder, hard enough to bruise, and the kid’s backed up against the wall cringing against the noise, or maybe from the pain of being grabbed, and - and - 

“Please,” the kid stammers. “I didn’t mean - I don’t want -”

Damn it. _Damn_ it.

Dick can’t decide if he’s still furious or humiliated by his own outburst, and so he storms out.

Nothing is fine at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The murder at the circus (Tim is 2/2 for visits to circuses that end in murder), the world's most uncomfortable car ride, and Dick storming out of the Cave to go look for Bruce are all canon, as is some of the key dialogue. 
> 
> Grabbing Tim and shouting at him until he bursts into tears is also canon - in Tim's defense, Tim is only thirteen and this go-fetch-Nightwing mission has been _way_ more difficult than anticipated, and in Dick's defense, it's been a really stressful day. 
> 
> On the bright side, their relationship can only go up from here. Probably.
> 
> Next up: _He doesn’t get back to NYC until the next morning. Or really, really late that night, depending on your point of view._


	4. A Lonely Place of Dying 2

He doesn’t get back to NYC until the next morning. Or really, really late that night, depending on your point of view. 

He parks the car about a million miles away (because that’s NYC for you) and heads over to his apartment the regular-person way, trudging along the dark street instead of swinging through the alleys. Partly because it’s late enough to be early morning, and someone might see, and partly because his shoulder is going to be badly bruised (thank you, Two-Face, thank you, collapsing building, take a bow all around). He’s not a complete idiot. He knows that sometimes you have to rest.

Unlike Bruce, apparently. Bruce who apparently _is_ having a mental breakdown, more so than usual.

Bruce, who could’ve died tonight.

( _Why_ is it always Two-Face?)

Internally he’s still reeling. Those photos had looked bad—but it’s one thing to see photos and it’s another to see Bruce like that. Face expressionless, side full of bloody stitches that he’s ignoring, Alfred visibly fraying at the edges. 

Batman is, in fact, so far gone that a literal thirteen-year-old has been following him around on a bike, snapping photos, and he _didn’t notice_.

And okay, so Dick’s not winning any prizes for Best Coping Mechanisms Ever. He and Bruce just had to get dragged out of danger by the aforementioned thirteen-year-old and the seventy-year-old butler, so yeah, maybe Dick’s been a bit sloppy too. He’s aware. It’s been a hell of a month, okay? Ditching the Titans, ditching Kory, barely sleeping for a month ever since he found out that Jason is _dead_. 

And now there’s yet another new kid.

Tim Drake, new would-be Robin.

 _Batman needs a Robin. No matter what he thinks he wants_.

Tim Drake was a million kinds of infuriating tonight. The snobbish little accent. The bossy know-it-all attitude. The holier than thou lectures. Poking his nose in where it does _not_ belong.

But the biggest gut punch was realizing that he was _right_. 

Not about Dick, not about the delusional idea that Dick could ever go back—that Bruce would ever want him to. 

But he was right about Bruce. Bruce did— _does_ —need someone. 

And apparently anyone will do.

If Tim Drake were at _least_ another hard-luck case, like Jason, instead of a spoiled little socialite, it’d be easier to accept, maybe. 

But no, just a bored rich kid who apparently got way too invested in Dick’s personal worst night ever. Stuck-up, self-involved, nosy little brat, like the society vultures way back, fascinated by Dick’s dead parents as if it had anything to do with them. Getting some kind of vicarious thrill out of it, like watching a car pile-up, I was _that_ close to tragedy.

(At the circus that night, the picture, _Christ_.)

He’s made it to his building, but the elevator is broken _again_ , so seven flights of stairs it is. Perfect capstone to a perfectly awful night.

He shouldn’t feel this resentful. He shouldn’t feel resentful at _all_. He actually got to _approve_ the new Robin this time, officially hand Bruce over to yet _another_ replacement son. But it turns out that getting to officially approve the handover doesn’t make it feel any less shitty, not when he barely talks to Bruce as it is.

Bruce wasn’t thrilled about the kid either, but Alfred’s pretty desperate, desperate enough to talk him around, desperate enough to put a new kid in Dick’s costume even though the last one _died_ that way. That, more than anything, had told Dick this was serious. 

So Dick sided with Alfred, because Bruce _does_ need someone, and he doesn’t want Dick—the fight two weeks ago made that pretty damn clear, not that Dick would’ve moved back anyway. And Alfred and Dick - and of course Tim Drake, who wouldn’t shut up - talked Bruce around, more or less. 

Technically, Bruce has only agreed to probation: no costume yet, no promises.

But Dick knows. It’s only a matter of time. If Bruce was willing to take _Jason_ on, straight out of Crime Alley, Tim will win him over easily.

This kid’s nothing like Dick or Jason. Tim’s from the _right_ side of the tracks. _Bruce’s_ side of the tracks. No more kids from juvie, time to start recruiting the silver spoon set. Or, okay, that’s not quite fair to Bruce. That wasn’t a recruitment so much as Timmy’s _audition_. Watching wasn’t enough anymore; the silent stalker was ready for a starring role.

(Got what you _really_ wanted, didn’t you kiddo, you’re-the-real-Robin BS notwithstanding. A Robin costume: the one thing you can’t write to Daddy for.)

His hands are shaking. The key won’t turn in the lock.

(Should’ve learned your lesson with Jason, you absolute jackass. So Bruce never wanted you, it’s done, forget it, it’s not the _kid’s_ fault.)

He catches himself swearing at his own apartment door, dead on his feet, sore all over, trying the key for the third freaking time.

Why the hell won’t this door open? 

Except no, it _is_ open, swings open when he pushes. 

_Hmmm._ That’s odd.

* * *

The distraction of a mystery—a _case_ —is actually a relief from the dark, jealous undertow of his own thoughts. He can already feel the tension easing down. This is the kind of problem that Dick can solve. 

So: the door. It’s the lock that’s busted, someone’s jimmied it. A break-in? Now that the door’s open, he scans the place cautiously. 

Nobody here anymore. Nothing obviously out of place. But the chair’s a few inches to the right of where it’s supposed to be, and somebody’s messed with the papers on the table. Half the newspaper missing. TV’s still there. Laptop still on the countertop, wedged between the pile of dirty dishes and the stack of untouched junk mail. Dick should probably get on that, one of these days. 

Checks the laptop. Somebody opened the calendar app that Dick downloaded a while ago and never bothered to use. And checked his Internet search history. Why would—

Wait. 

Dick’s last search was for directions to Haly’s.

Somebody broke into his apartment. Went through his stuff. Figured out where he’d gone.

Three guesses, and the first two don’t count.

Apparently Tim Drake has a sideline in breaking and entering, when he’s not an amateur photographer or wannabe therapist. 

It explains how he’d known Dick was at the circus, which Dick is a bit embarrassed to realize he hadn’t questioned. He tries to get the timeline straight in his head. So the kid followed Bruce around taking photos, and then got fixated on the find-the-ex-Robin thing, and showed up in New York yesterday, and apparently found Dick’s apartment somehow, and … broke in, and went through Dick’s stuff until he worked out where he’d gone, and then headed off to the circus, where he promptly got himself involved in Dick’s case. 

It’s both demented and worryingly impressive. He and Bruce will get along great with that boundaries-are-for-other-people attitude.

At least the kid got the murder suspect wrong. Score one for the original Robin. 

Dick’s ready to sleep for about a year, but he needs to check his phone first. He left the cell at home yesterday, wanting to get away from everything for a bit. So much for _that_ plan.

The phone’s still plugged in; he checks it. Lots of missed texts.

Text from Kory yesterday afternoon: _need to talk sorry I know you wanted space but there’s a kid looking for you said it was urgent but he disappeared_. Did the kid talk to _everyone_ Dick knows? Dick texts her back: _blue shirt and backpack?_ Gets an answer right away: _yes thats him is everything okay_. Dick sends her a thumbs up sign, puts the phone away.

She must’ve been waiting by the phone, at—what time is it?—just past seven in the morning. Not like Kory at all. She’s worried about him. Dick tries not to think about it.

He’s fine. He’ll _be_ fine. Bruce has a new kid, and Dick’s job is done, and he’s… fine.

Checks the other messages: Donna, Wally, Roy, nothing urgent. 

_Four_ messages from Tim Drake, who … apparently added himself to Dick’s contact list while he was here. Okaaaaay.

Timmy’s texts are all time-stamped yesterday, starting in the morning and continuing into the afternoon, all before the kid showed up at the circus. So, pointless, but Dick reads them anyway. Like the kid himself, they start out cagey and opaque, and get reluctantly more forthcoming over time.

Tim Drake: _Someone you know is in big trouble and you might be the only person who can help. Pls text or call ASAP._

About an hour later:

Tim Drake: _PS This is not a threat or scam!! Sorry to bother you_ _but it’s very important!_ _Please call!!_

Two hours after that:

Tim Drake: _I promise I am not trying to cause trouble, I just need to explain about the person who needs help so you can help him & then I will leave you alone. It’s sort of complicated so I don’t want to put details in a text that other people could see. Thank you! Sincerely, Tim_

Sometime after that is apparently when the kid broke into the apartment, because the last text gives up on subtlety and goes full overshare:

Tim Drake: _Hi, I know this looks like spam but it is NOT, I am a real person!! My name is Tim Drake & you probably don’t remember me but we met at the Wayne holiday gala 2 years ago. I left a card it’s under your laptop, it’s okay if you want to do a background check on me before calling back but please don’t call my school, we are on break this week!! PLS TEXT OR CALL before 11 if you can. I will be at Haly’s but if you call I can come wherever you want. I added my # to your phone, sorry about your lock!!_

Dick wastes a bit of time trying to figure out if the gala thing is a bluff or just another mark toward the kid’s apparent stalker tendencies. It’s plausible enough. Bruce hosts a fundraiser at the holidays every year, black-tie, cocktails, the whole deal, and all the rich folks show up. Boring as anything, but Bruce always made Dick go, when he lived at the Manor. (Presumably _Jason_ went last year.) So the kid’s got the year right. The Drakes are rich, so that tracks, too. But Dick’s got a pretty good memory, and he doesn’t—

Wait. Two years ago, gala, wasn’t that the one that the Penguin attacked? 

It’s coming back to him now. Not a bad memory. Blast of adrenaline when the guns came out, just as Dick had given the night up as a waste of time. There were a couple kids there, scattered around the room, maybe one of them was Tim Drake? Dick hadn’t been paying much attention to the guests, not with hired gunmen in the picture. He’d managed to slip out in time to change, and he’d been Robin then, laughing, when they tied up the last of the henchmen. Best party ever, he’d said to Bruce, we should do this again sometime, and Bruce had laughed, and — 

Ugh.

He deletes the texts and goes looking for the card to throw away. It’s an actual honest-to-God fancy gloss calling card—surreal old-Gotham society touch on the countertop of his shitty apartment, like Dick’s still in that world, Bruce’s world. _Timothy Jackson Drake_ in curlicues, and his official boarding school email scratched out, and another email written on the back in chicken-scratch.

Dick throws it away. Deletes Tim Drake’s phone number.

Well, he thinks, that’s the end of that.

(He’s wrong.)

* * *

One weekend later, he’s in the shower, and somebody’s murdering the doorbell.

“Hold on, hold on—you caught me in the shower! Be right there!”

It’s Tim Drake. Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tim tracking down Kory, Tim breaking into Dick’s apartment, Alfred and Tim saving Dick and Bruce from Two-Face, and Dick and Alfred helping talk around a skeptical Bruce to maybe-possibly getting a new Robin are all canon. So is the surprise morning visit a short time later.
> 
> Dick canonically forgets his pager (!) at home while heading off to Haly’s. I gave him a cell phone instead.
> 
> Next up: _Alfred thinks there’s something wrong at home. Didn’t say so outright, but Dick can read between the lines, knows what it meant when Alfred said, in their last phone call, “I think it would behoove us to know more about the young man’s home life, and I’ve suggested as much to Master Bruce.”_


	5. Carousel + Christmas

It’s way too early for this, but Dick is staring at Tim Drake’s face anyway. In the hallway right outside his apartment.

What.

How.

Why.

“Hi, Dick,” the kid says brightly. “Bruce sent me to see you. He says you’re the only one who can teach me how to become Robin!”

Very flattering. Very nice to hear. Two small problems. _One_ , Dick happens to know that Bruce is out of the country, has been for a week, and _two_ , Tim Drake is on probation, isn’t supposed to be doing _anything_ until Alfred gives him the go-ahead.

(So sue him, Dick’s been calling Alfred. Bruce had looked… bad.)

The point is: Bruce did not send Tim Drake anywhere. Neither did Alfred, who would’ve called Dick first. The little apartment burglar has sent _himself_.

“So when do we start?” Tim Drake asks, all innocence.

Dick has to give him credit. The kid has guts. It’s totally unclear why he’s _actually_ here, but that’s not Dick’s problem. (Does he think Bruce will give him credit for showing initiative? If he does, he’s in for a nasty surprise.)

The kid’s not Dick’s problem, but he’s already slipping inside, and… Dick has definitely been isolating himself for too long, if he’s lonely enough that even the prospect of thirteen-year-old company seems appealing.

“Coffee first,” Dick says.

He doesn’t offer the kid a cup, but Timmy makes himself comfortable at the table anyway. Sort of comfortable. It’s hard to tell. The kid has a decent poker face, though his hand is vibrating nervously under the table, tapping his leg. He stills it when he notices Dick noticing.

Hmmm.

Anxious about being called out for the lie? Or just anxious, period? 

Dick has to admit it wouldn’t be uncalled for. He’s about twice the kid’s size and last time they saw each other (he remembers now, with a sour taste in his mouth) Dick actually yelled enough to make him _cry_ , actual literal tears rolling down the kid’s face, like they were in a Lifetime movie ( _you can’t let them die!_ ).

Screaming at a thirteen-year-old: not his finest moment. He hesitates over the coffee maker. Maybe he _should_ offer the kid coffee? Or water? What do thirteen-year-olds drink?

The kid’s surveying the room. “When I was here I thought you were moving,” he says, very polite, butter wouldn’t melt, but there’s a wry little uptick to his mouth.

Brat. No coffee for you.

They trade barbs for a bit, and Dick gives him a hard time about the Boy Scout routine.

“Have some deep-seated need to help lost puppies and crying babies, Tim?”

“And old women trying to cross the street, too,” Tim says, very solemnly. He can’t be for real. No, there’s his mouth twitching up again. “Yeah, I guess I do like helping people. I feel good about myself when I do.”

 _Touché_ , Mr. Drake.

The little stalker still needs to be taught a lesson, though, so Dick takes him out to Central Park, trying to figure out what to _do_ with him. Actual training is right out—it’s daylight hours, and Dick doesn’t exactly have a gym, and he’s not going to reward the kid for lying to him. And the kid can find his own way back to Gotham this time.

Actually. Hmmm.

“How’d you get here, anyway?” _And how are you getting back?_

“There’s a bus,” Tim says promptly. He’s scanning the park. “Will we be climbing trees? What are you going to teach me?”

“To not ask questions. C’mon.”

They head off the sidewalk, into the trees.

* * *

 _Bus._ Bus… makes sense, of course, too young to drive, and the interstate train line got smashed up last week. So: early morning Graydog bus to midtown Manhattan, then the subway to Dick’s apartment.

But Gotham bus depot is in one of the shittiest (read: cheapest) parts of downtown Gotham, and the Drakes live miles away in Bristol. So he must’ve first taken the A-line from Bristol to downtown, and in the predawn hours too, because Timmy’s bus must’ve left Gotham at—what, six? Six-thirty? Does the kid ever _sleep_? Where are his parents? What does he do all day when he’s not harassing Dick? 

Dick’s met a lot of bored rich kids and they do a lot of dumb things, but this wannabe Robin stuff is weird, actually. Why Robin and not _Batman_? Why come to Dick, now that he’s got what he wanted? He’s clearly got—or _had_ —some sort of fixation on Dick’s acrobatics by way of the circus, which is so weird that Dick shies away from even thinking about it, but Dick hasn’t done circus tricks since he was a kid. 

And anyway, he’s seen Dick’s shitty apartment and watched him completely fail to stop Two-Face last week, not to mention lose his temper and argue with Bruce _again_ , so surely any deluded hero-worship should’ve died a quick death by now? 

Not to mention the inherent stalker-aspect of _how did you know where my apartment was anyway_ , which he’s not even gonna touch. And the kid looks and sounds mostly normal, which makes it weirder.

Alfred thinks there’s something wrong at home. Didn’t say so outright, but Dick can read between the lines, knows what it meant when Alfred said, in their last phone call, _I think it would behoove us to know more about the young man’s home life, and I’ve suggested as much to Master Bruce._

The kid seems fine, though. 

Annoying, pushy, kind of jittery, but fine. His clothes fit, he’s showered recently, he’s got a laptop in his backpack and enough spending money to head up to NYC when it suits him, which rules out neglect—the Drakes clearly aren’t stingy with his allowance. There’s always physical abuse, happens even in rich families, but there’s no reason to suspect that either. Not that Dick can see, anyway. 

Besides, from what Alfred said, the Drakes are out of the country more often than not, and they apparently trust the kid to manage on his own, even during school vacations.

(Lucky little bastard. Dick would’ve killed for that kind of independence, as a kid. But of course Bruce— Move on, move on.)

So far, the only thing that’s seemed even a _bit_ off is the way Tim jerked a bit when Dick ruffled his hair earlier. 

Obviously startled, and… there was something off about it, though Dick can’t put his finger on what. 

But maybe it’s not that odd? The kid’s obviously a bit high-strung, and if anything it’s weirder that he’s not _more_ anxious around Dick, who he barely knows.

* * *

They wander all over the park and Tim sticks close to him. He’s watching Dick like a hawk, like he can figure out what Dick’s planning using only his eyeballs.

_Joke’s on you, kid, because I have no idea._

What he’d really like to do is make the kid leave, but in some way that won’t disappoint Alfred. Make the kid leave of his own accord. Ideally before noon.

After a while he gets an idea.

They’re on a hill in a less-busy part of the park, but Dick can see a carousel not too far away. It’s crowded with people: families out for the weekend. He can have the kid sit, wait ten or fifteen minutes, and then quiz him on what he’s seen. It’ll test his observational skills. Bonus: it’ll probably bore him to tears. Tim Drake will think twice before ambushing Dick for training again.

“Okay,” Dick says. “Take your position and sit.”

Tim looks skeptically at the grass and then back at him. “Why?”

Brat. “Because I said so. Rule one: don’t question me.”

“Why not?”

Dick can’t figure out if he’s being made fun of. He gives the kid a quelling glare just in case. "If you want to be Batman’s partner, you better get used to obeying commands. You want more freedom? _Earn_ it. Now, sit down and don’t move until I tell you.”

He expects an argument, but no: the kid’s cowed. He sits.

Dick sits on the rock next to him, and mentally makes a note of a few people on the carousel. There’s a kid in a maroon jacket with a leg brace - that’ll be a good one to see if the kid remembers. If you might have to evacuate civilians, you need to spot the ones who might need extra help. And the kid’s mom is young, in her twenties, nervous - likely to panic. And if Tim remembers _them_ , then Dick can bring up the elderly mom with a baby, sitting on a bench not too far away. Chances are, the kid’s watching either the carousel _or_ the people around it - not both at once.

Fifteen minutes pass.

Twenty.

Dick _could_ call a halt now, but instead he decides to let the wait drag on a bit longer. He’s still sort of annoyed that the kid invited himself to the apartment, and Timmy deserves to squirm a little. When the kid gets fed up with the wait and starts demanding to know why they’re still sitting here, Dick will spring the test on him. It shouldn’t take too long.

But Tim Drake says nothing.

Two hours pass. 

Three.

Tim’s still quiet. He darts glances at Dick when he thinks Dick’s not looking, but he doesn’t move or protest. Obedient little toy soldier, this kid. Bruce will like that.

Dick wonders how long it’ll take for him to give up, lose his temper. Jason wouldn’t have put up with this for five seconds, but then, Jason had pluck. Dick _himself_ would not put up with this, not now and definitely not at thirteen, not without an explanation. It’s unclear if Tim thinks he’s proving something or whether he’s just got nothing better to do on a Saturday, but the kid seems determined to outlast Dick. 

Not that it’s a competition.

(Dick’s always hated sitting still.)

Four hours. They’ve missed lunch, and Dick’s theoretically in charge here, so he could call a halt and go _get_ lunch, but it feels too much like giving in, and by now he’s reluctantly curious how long the little brat will stick it out before he goes crawling back to Gotham.

Final count: seven hours and sixteen minutes in front of the carousel.

Dick gives in first.

He stands. Tim Drake jerks like a startled rabbit.

“We’ve been watching the carousel for seven hours,” Dick announces in his best Batman-voice. “Describe _all_ the kids who rode on it, what they were wearing, and who brought them to the park.”

“Are you _kidding_?” Tim Drake says.

Dick gives him his sternest look and the kid _wilts_. Petty, maybe, but oh so satisfying.

“What were you doing the entire time you sat there?”

“I didn’t pay attention.” The kid winces. “I thought we were either meditating or you were teaching me about patience.”

He’s still annoying, but Dick’s reluctantly impressed.

“Partially right on both counts,” Dick says, “but you don’t shut off your brain just because you’re meditating or marking time. _I_ was observing everything. Tell me about the kids and who brought them.”

“I don’t—”

“What color socks am I wearing? I sat by you for those seven hours.”

 _Socks_ , the kid mouths to himself. He looks like a deer in the headlights.

It’s probably kind of mean, but Dick’s secretly enjoying himself, watching the kid’s face scrunch up.

He quizzes the kid a bit about what he noticed and remembers (very little), lets him stumble through mistakes and blurry memories, corrects him unmercifully. 

The kid looks appropriately cowed. When he trails out of the park after Dick, he’s silent and somber, lost in thought.

It’s time for dinner, Tim’s dragging his heels, they’re heading out of the park… it’s a perfect time to get rid of him and go get food. And Dick fully intends to.

“So—” he begins, stopping outside the cheap pizzeria.

And then the kid’s stomach growls, and when Dick raises an eyebrow Timmy hunches his shoulders and stares at his shoes like they’ve got the secret to the universe. Like a little kid. Because he _is_ a little kid, Dick remembers now, thirteen is not _that_ old, and now he just feels like a jerk.

“C’mon,” he says.

So he buys himself two slices of pizza, and against his better judgment he gets a slice for Tim Drake too, even though the kid really doesn’t need any more encouragement. 

And then the kid shows no signs of leaving, so Dick ends up taking him along on one of Nightwing’s investigations, talking him through the steps while the kid listens, wide-eyed and serious and impressed.

And then the Titans end up needing some help, so the kid tags along for _that_ , too. 

The Titans like him, which is… surprising, though maybe it shouldn’t be. The last thirteen-year-old that the Titans dealt with was obnoxious little Danny Chase, with the constant insults and the callous attitude. Tim Drake is a lot easier to take, in comparison. Gar in particular is flattered that Tim’s apparently read a bunch of articles about him. (The superhero-stalking is evidently an equal-opportunity thing.)

Dick doesn’t end up saying goodbye to Tim Drake until eleven at night. 

They go downtown, and Dick walks him to the bus and gives him some mostly-sincere compliments. Tim thanks him politely, says he learned a lot. He seems to mean it. They shake hands, which is weirdly formal—Dick feels a bit like he’s just concluded a business meeting—but it seems somehow appropriate for the kid.

Tim Drake is clearly… not a bad kid. Dick’s never going to be his biggest fan, and Dick now knows he’s a bit of a liar as well as a stalker, amateur burglar, and professional busybody, but… he clearly means well. He sincerely wants to help. Figuring out their identities was basically a fluke, but he _is_ clever. He’s stubborn and determined and he doesn’t take no for an answer. Those are all good qualities.

Dick should be glad. Glad that the new Robin looks promising. Glad that Bruce will have somebody sensible watching his back.

Instead there’s a knot in the pit of his stomach, and there’s a part of Dick that wants, badly, for Tim Drake to vanish from the face of the earth.

Obedient, quiet, patient, clever. Everything Dick’s not, never was.

Bruce will _love_ him.

* * *

A month later, Janet Drake is murdered while abroad. Jack Drake is alive, but in a coma. Dick finds out from Alfred.

It doesn’t feel real. The Drakes were _socialites_. Not exactly a high-danger lifestyle. And now one is dead and the other’s unconscious. Maybe forever.

Tim is staying over at the Manor. “Temporarily,” Alfred says. “Until his father recovers.”

“ _Is_ his father gonna recover?” Dick asks.

“It will take time,” Alfred says carefully. “But the doctors are very hopeful.”

 _How's he taking it,_ Dick doesn't ask. There's no good way to take something like this.

Janet Drake’s funeral’s on Christmas Eve. Dick drives down from New York. He’s not going to stay at the Manor, but he can put in an appearance.

The ceremony is long, and it’s snowing, but they stand out there anyway. Bruce is there, so Dick stands next to him. They don’t talk much, but they don’t have to. This is the one comfort of Bruce, even when Dick hates him—he _understands_. They don’t have to talk about it. Bruce isn’t over his parents’ death either. He knows that every funeral is just another reminder of the first loss.

Tim doesn’t deserve this. Nobody does.

The kid’s face is a mask; whatever’s going on beneath it, he’s not letting on. He seems to have taken on the social obligations since there are apparently no other relatives—shaking hands, thanking people for coming.

When Dick says hello, he too gets a handshake and a practiced smile. “Thanks for coming, Dick. I know how busy—”

Dick doesn’t let him finish. “I know what you’re going through. If you need help—”

“I appreciate that,” Tim says, impassive. “But I’ll cope.”

He leaves Dick with a polite nod and goes to thank somebody else.

The robot act’s a bit unnerving. The whole thing’s a bit unnerving. He had sort of expected the kid to be sobbing.

When the funeral ends, Bruce says he’s heading back to the Manor. Alone, apparently. Tim’s still methodically thanking people, but he comes over to say goodbye and says, with a meaningful look at Bruce, that he’ll be back in an hour. The downstairs entrance, he says. Bruce nods.

“You can’t be serious,” Dick says, staring at Bruce once they’ve gotten away from the crowd. “His mother just died. It’s Christmas Eve. And you’re gonna put him on the _streets_?”

He knew, after this, that it was only a matter of time before Bruce let him wear the suit. But _now_? _Today_?

“There’s a case,” Bruce says. “As of nine this morning, three separate people with no history of violence had bought guns and—“

“ _Bruce_.”

Bruce looks at him, and for a moment it’s as if no time has passed at all, as if they’re still a team. “I don’t know what to do,” he says, frank and brutal. “He’s angry. I failed to save his mother. His father will be comatose for weeks. He’s having nightmares. What _should_ I do?”

“Doesn’t he have any family at all?” Dick asks. “Uncles, aunts, something?”

Bruce just looks at him, the expression that means, _Think, Robin_.

And once he thinks about it: yeah, he already knows the answer. He heard a bit of the chatter at the funeral. Business associates. People who knew them from galas. Distant acquaintances. No close friends. If there _had_ been, somebody would’ve been with Tim, so that the _thirteen-year-old_ wasn’t the one doing the handshake-thanks-for-coming thing.

“There’s a social worker,” Bruce says. “She wants to find a placement for him.” Dick glances at him, but Bruce is staring into the middle distance, deep in his own dark thoughts. “Alfred suggested he stay with us. Until his father recovers. But I’m not sure it’s wise.”

Dick hates this entire conversation already. “But you said there’s no one else, right?”

Bruce’s face is hard to read. “I have contacts abroad. I could send him there.”

 _Yes_ , Dick wants to say. Send him away.

But of course he can’t say it. An awful thing to even think.

(He wants to say: don’t give him the suit. Don’t spend Christmas with him. Just _don’t_. Let the social worker handle it. But it’s way too late for that now. Dick made this happen. _He_ talked Bruce around into training the kid—Alfred couldn’t have done it on his own. He did the right thing, the mature thing. Now he has to live with it. Steady, patient, clever, _and_ a family tragedy? Bruce is _never_ gonna let go of Tim Drake now.)

At least Jack Drake didn’t die, he keeps thinking. Bruce would’ve adopted him on the spot. It’s a cruel thought, and not fair to any of them, but he can’t help thinking it. _Stay the hell away from my family, Tim Drake_ , he thinks, _you got to keep your father, you don’t get to take mine, too_. Then he’s just ashamed of himself. This is why he doesn’t usually come to Gotham anymore.

“Do what you think is best, Bruce,” he says aloud, resigned. “You always do.”

On Christmas Day, he checks the homepage of the Gotham Gazette. Batman’s apprehended the Scarecrow. A few days later, there’s another article. The photograph’s not very good, but it doesn’t need to be. Dick knows.

There’s officially a new Robin in town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tim getting trained by Dick before he’s officially Robin is canon, as is the seven-hour (!) carousel test. The original comic, New Titans 65, probably imagined that Bruce _did_ send Tim, but this doesn’t track with the Batman comics at the same time, in which Batman’s out of the country and Tim’s under orders to stay put at boarding school. Plus, Bruce and Dick are still pretty estranged, which means sending Tim to Dick sounds unlikely to me. I firmly believe that Tim just sent _himself_ to NYC and no one can convince me otherwise.
> 
> Bruce and Alfred’s concern that something’s weird about Tim’s parents is also canon. They probably got concerned because of exchanges like this actual quote from Batman 444: B: “Tim, have you spoken to your parents about being here?” Tim: “My parents? Actually... I don't know where they are now. They haven’t called in a while. It’s no big deal. They’re so busy. I guess they forget.”
> 
> Also canon: Tim’s mom’s funeral is on Christmas Eve, Dick shows up, and Tim manages a good poker face at the funeral, but spends the morning before _and_ the evening after in the Batcave, not coping well at all.
> 
> Next up: Knightfall, Knightsquest, and Knightsend.
> 
> _So here’s the deal: Bruce isn’t just badly injured; Bruce’s back is broken, and he also has terrible decision-making skills, because when he’s trying to figure out who should fill in for him as Batman, he doesn’t call Dick. Despite the fact that Dick, you know, trained for this._
> 
> ETA: Now with no Jack Drake, who hasn't recovered from his coma yet. Oops. Thanks KiwiClover <3


	6. Knightfall + Knightsend

For weeks afterwards, all Alfred’s news is about Tim Drake. Every time Dick calls, he gets the Tim-update, whether he wants it or not.

It’s Dick’s fault: he came to the funeral, and apparently the kid told Alfred about the Central Park visit, so now Alfred’s under the impression that they’re friends, or at least that Dick might want updates on him. Which. What’s Dick gonna say? The kid’s mom is _dead_. His dad _might_ die. If there was ever a time when secretly resenting him was okay, it isn’t _now_.

So he hears it all, a steady stream of news bulletins on one Timothy Jackson Drake, part-time Robin, full-time paragon.

Tim is getting martial arts training in Paris. Tim has gone to Hong Kong. Tim is back in Gotham. Tim’s father is awake, but still in the hospital. Tim is doing better in school. Tim is such a capable young man. Tim is coping so well. 

Tim, Tim, Tim.

Dick could make it stop - unlike Bruce, Alfred _does_ take hints - but he _does_ want to know, guiltily curious, guiltily _invested_ , even if he’s horribly aware it’s partly for selfish reasons. So he keeps calling.

(The weird limbo of not knowing whether he’s gonna be adopted or not is agonizing. Heads, Tim’s dad recovers on schedule and he goes home. Tails…)

Dick avoids giving Alfred any of his _own_ news.

(It’s all bad.)

* * *

Tim’s dad recovers.

 _Finally_. It’s only been a few months, but it feels like _eons_.

“Is that gonna be a problem for the Robin thing?” Dick asks, not sure what answer he wants.

“It seems not,” Alfred says. “Mr. Drake will be moving to a residence not far away, so Young Master Tim will still be quite close to ho - ah. To the Manor. And I gather that his father is, ah. Not particularly observant. I daresay he will be able to visit frequently. Though it won’t be the same, of course.” 

He sounds wistful.

It’s strange, hearing Alfred talk about Tim. _Young Master Tim_ , now. Alfred likes him, it’s obvious. Under Alfred’s customary reserve, there’s a proud fondness that Dick’s only ever heard applied to himself and Bruce.

Somehow it had never really occurred to Dick that _Alfred_ might get attached to the kid, too. Bruce, yes. But Alfred…

Though it makes sense, of course. Quiet and polite and clever. Serious and hardworking. Protective of Bruce. Why _wouldn’t_ Alfred like him? Tim must be a nice change, after the kids Alfred’s had to deal with. No temper like Dick’s, no rough edges like Jason. Tim Drake isn’t the sort of kid who would curse, or steal, or swing on the chandeliers, or break lamps running through the Manor. Tim Drake’s room is probably neat as a pin, and he probably knows all the names of the fancy foods that Alfred prepares. Even his sense of humor is a bit like Alfred’s. Tim probably makes Alfred laugh.

Alfred has barely known him for a few _months_.

The Titans liked him. Alfred likes him. Bruce likes him.

And Tim and his dad are moving to a house that’ll be closer to the Manor.

Of course they are.

Dick stops calling. There’s only so much he can take.

* * *

He throws himself into the Titans. Tries not to think about Gotham.

The Titans have always been his refuge. His friends, his family, his first call in a storm. Dick _needs_ them to be his refuge. Surely it’s not too much to ask for _one_ thing in his life to stay stable, to stay sane.

But the harder he tries to hold on, the more it feels like he’s losing his grip. On _everything_. The government won’t stop hassling them, and Kory breaks up with him, and he can’t seem to keep his temper for more than five seconds, and proposing marriage to Kory is the one thing he can think of that might _fix_ it. He loves Kory; he can’t lose her. Marriage will fix this—it _has_ to. He needs one person in his life who won’t disappear.

She’s not sure, but Dick insists, convinces her, and she says yes.

They send the invitations. Kory’s family won’t be coming, obviously, but they invite Titans current and former, and …

And Dick carefully addresses an invitation to Gotham. To the Manor.

To Bruce.

He tries not to think about what it might mean, if Bruce says no.

* * *

Bruce doesn’t come to the wedding. Neither does Alfred.

(Neither does Barbara Gordon, and _that's_ a completely different disaster.)

Bruce and Dick still aren’t talking, not really, so it’s Alfred who calls to tell him.

It turns out that Bruce is injured, maybe badly injured, can’t come. And of course Alfred doesn’t want to leave him. 

(Alfred called when he got the invitation, not when Bruce was injured. Dick forces himself not to ask why not. Bruce is _injured_ ; obviously Alfred’s been busy. Alfred gives him the Tim-update too, even though he didn’t ask for it: Tim has been helping with Bruce, Tim is anxious but at heart a very steady young man, Tim has been a godsend in these trying times. Because of _course_ he has.)

Technically, of course, there’s no need for Bruce to be at Dick’s wedding. Bruce and Dick don’t have any legal relationship anymore, and they’re not exactly friendly. The wardship has lapsed. Dick’s an adult now. He’s never had a legal relationship with Alfred. He lived in that house for a while, that’s it.

It’s… fine. It’s fine.

Tim Drake _does_ show up at the wedding, which Dick sort of resents, even though he was technically invited too. He’s the only person from Gotham, other than Dick, and he’s probably the only person in the entire gathering who isn’t silently thinking it’s a bad idea...since he’s the only one who doesn’t know Dick and Kory at all. 

(All of Dick’s _actual_ friends seem to think he’s having a breakdown.)

The wedding fixes nothing. They don’t finish the wedding. There’s an attack and Kory is badly injured and shortly after that Dick is out of the Titans, who’ve apparently lost patience with—what? His temper? His leadership? Technically he quits, but it’s a _you can’t fire me I quit_ situation, miserably familiar. Just like with Bruce. 

And then Kory recovers and days later ditches him to go find herself in the Amazon, and they’re broken up again.

And _then_ , he heads over to Gotham to check on Bruce, only to discover that there’s a new Batman and no one bothered to tell him _that_ , either.

Tim Drake’s the one who tells him. Of _course_.

* * *

So here’s the deal: Bruce isn’t just badly injured; Bruce’s _back_ is _broken_ , and he also has terrible decision-making skills, because when he’s trying to figure out who should fill in for him as Batman, he doesn’t call Dick. Despite the fact that Dick, you know, _trained for this_. Despite the fact that Dick is the _obvious_ choice.

Instead, Bruce decides to give the cape to a nobody named Jean-Paul Valley. Who also happens to be a murdery psycho religious nutcase.

(Because _that_ , apparently, is how little Bruce thinks of him. Second-best to Jason _and_ Tim and whatever kid Bruce decides to pick up next? Fine, Dick can deal. Second-best to a guy who literally _hallucinates voices that tell him to murder people_? What _is_ this?)

He finds out about the hallucination bit from Tim Drake. 

(Because of _course_ he does.)

* * *

It goes on like that for a while. At one point Tim Drake shows up in New York in a Robin costume, invites himself along on _Dick’s_ case, and spends the whole time whining about Jean-Paul, _he’s crazy, he’s violent, I don’t like him and I think someone else should be Batman, hint-hint-hint_. Not in exactly those words but Dick gets the basic idea.

Why the kid thinks _Dick_ can do anything about it is unclear. _Dick_ didn’t pick him. Dick doesn’t even _know_ him. This is Bruce and Timmy’s mess. _If you don’t like it, maybe you and Bruce shouldn’t have made the crazy man Batman, kiddo._

And then Valley goes completely off the deep end.

* * *

Bruce calls him. Asks for help.

God help him.

Dick goes.

Tim’s already there when he shows up, naturally. Bruce explains Azrael. Sort of. Order of St. Dumas, passed down from father to son, blah blah blah. Valley was apparently raised in some kind of psycho religious cult. Which is why he’s a religious psycho.

“He was indoctrinated from birth with subliminal hypnotic commands,” Bruce is lecturing. “He was raised to be a human machine for punishment and death.”

He _shouldn’t_ say anything, but: “And you chose _him_ over _me_ to carry the mantle of the Bat? A programmed murderer?”

“If I had known, do you think I’d have done it?” Bruce says, which is a) rhetorical, and b) not an apology, but then again, this is Bruce.

On the other hand. Bruce _did_ ask for help. Basically a Batman-apology.

Bruce ditches them almost immediately, with orders to break into the Cave and cut off Valley’s access to the equipment. So that leaves Dick with the kid.

This is becoming a habit.

* * *

They break into the Cave, which Valley has… tried to wall off. And rigged with surveillance devices. And once they get in, it turns out that Valley set up cut-outs of different rogues which he’s been taking potshots at, to go by the bullet marks in the walls.

Valley has been in charge of Gotham for _weeks_. What _is_ this.

He’d like to pick a fight with Bruce, but of course Bruce isn’t here, so he’s stuck with Mini-Bruce instead. 

“How -” _the hell_ “did Bruce let this go on for so long?” Dick demands.

Timmy’s avoiding his eyes. “Paul had some problems, but Bruce thought he’d fixed them. And Bruce wasn’t exactly prepared to pick a replacement.”

Tim Drake’s not the person Dick wants to be having this fight with, but _come on_. “Not _prepared_? I’ve been doing this my entire life. He _trained_ me for this. Instead he picks some lunatic with a religious fixation.”

“He thought you’d moved on,” Tim Drake says. “He didn’t think you’d want to come back.”

Because Tim Drake is the expert on what Bruce thinks, naturally.

Argh. But Dick bites his tongue. They’ve got a job to do. And - Tim’s not really the one he’s mad at. Shouldn’t take it out on the kid, just because he’s a convenient target.

* * *

Taking down Valley turns out to be an … interesting experience. Mostly because Dick doesn’t see much of Valley himself. 

But he does see a _lot_ of Tim Drake.

Bruce already sent Nightwing and Robin to recapture the Cave. But that’s not the last joint mission that they get. Bruce sends them to track down Valley together. Puts them on crowd control together. Ditches them every chance he gets.

Dick’s out of practice at reading Bruce, but there’s no way this is accidental.

Either Bruce is avoiding him or - scratch that, Bruce is definitely avoiding him.

But that doesn’t explain why Bruce is suddenly all about Nightwing and Robin team-ups. Why he’s always _watching_ them, analyzing, every time they head out or come back together.

The team-ups aren’t practical. They’re unnecessary. Tracking? Crowd control? These are easy, no-danger, low-risk missions. Dick could handle them in his sleep, and _definitely_ without a partner. Bruce must know that too. Tim Drake’s cooperative, he tags along, but he’s not exactly _necessary_.

Which means it’s not about the missions, not really. Bruce is gathering information about _them_. Seeing how well they work together. _If_ they can work together.

Dick’s not an idiot. He knows that there’s a reason why a still-injured, still-recovering Bruce might be … interested … in seeing how well Dick works with the new Robin. Especially now that Valley isn’t in the cowl anymore.

Dick shouldn’t have to _audition_ for this. He’s spent _years_ as a crimefighter. Plus, he’s 100% _sane_.

But he’s unnervingly aware of Bruce watching him, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon: Alfred calls the day of Dick's wedding to cancel and that’s the first time Dick finds out about Bruce’s injury, Tim’s the only person from Gotham who comes to the wedding, Dick’s friends all think the sudden wedding is a manifestation of Dick’s issues (and, entertainingly, spend panel after panel worriedly psychoanalyzing him), Dick gets fired/quits the Titans in the next issue, and Kory breaks up with him shortly after that. Dick’s life is suffering.
> 
> Also canon: Dick is VERY BITTER that Bruce picked Azrael over him and spends a _lot_ of time fuming over it. The _you chose him over me?!_ quote is from Knightsend Part 2, and Dick’s complaints to Tim are adapted from Knightsend Part 3.
> 
> In the Nightwing vs. Azrael contest, Tim is canonically Team Nightwing all the way. Tim initially suggests they ask Nightwing to fill in as Batman (Bruce shoots him down and picks Azrael instead), he quickly gets fed up with Azrael’s violent tendencies, and when he runs into Dick in New York he keeps mentally comparing Nightwing to Azrael, to Azrael's detriment. And he keeps making catty comments at Azrael's expense.
> 
> Next up: Prodigal!! XD
> 
> _It's when they're Batman and Robin that things start to change. First slowly, then all at once._


	7. Prodigal 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _FYI - If you read the first version of Chapter 6, you might notice that the last scene has been ninja'd in here now because I forgot that the Two-Face convo came first and I am, uh, a little bit obsessive. >.<_

_It’s when they’re Batman and Robin that things start to change. First slowly, and then all at once._

_Or maybe that’s not true._

_Maybe it starts, really starts, just before they’re Batman and Robin. That last patrol together, right before Bruce hands over the costume. When he tells the kid about Two-Face._

* * *

Bruce has just sent Nightwing and Robin out on patrol - because the audition process is _still ongoing_ , apparently, even though Azrael is _defeated_ \- and Dick’s trying to decide what to do. He doesn’t have a good sense of where the hotspots are in Gotham right now, and he still doesn’t have a great read on the kid’s fighting skills - offensive? Defensive? More acrobatic? Focused on stealth?

So rather than guess, he finds a nice, boring stakeout to keep them occupied. The Diamond District used to always have at least _some_ wannabe safecrackers, and it looks like it still attracts them: after checking a few dozen skylights, Dick spots a heavily-armed bunch of thieves, all crowded around a big jewelry safe. Bingo. They're amateurs or out-of-towners - nobody's looking _up_ to check for Bats - so they won't be a big threat. Only one problem: there are a lot of them. But even that is an easy fix: wait until they’ve just gotten the safe open, and they’re all nice and distracted, and then crash in through the window. 

It’ll be a good fifteen-minute wait at least, so _boring_ , but at least Dick won’t accidentally break Bruce’s shiny new Robin.

(Dick’s still on _probation_ , after all.)

* * *

There’s one _major_ downside to the stake-out.

Tim Drake.

Who takes the opportunity of the quiet rooftop as an invitation to start interrogating Dick about everything he can think of.

_How did you become Robin? What was it like? Did Bruce train you right away? How did you train? What kind of martial arts? Do you still do that? What kind of daily exercises? How many repetitions? Should I do that? When did you first learn to do jump kicks? Flash kicks? Roundoffs? Did you ever patrol in Little Odessa? Was the Russian mob already in charge then? Have you ever been shot at? Have you ever been shot? What kind of gun? What kind of bullet? Were you still able to fight after? What did you do?_

It goes on and on and on.

And Dick doesn’t want to talk about it - has tried not to even think about those years, for ages - but the kid keeps pushing, and it’s not like Dick wants to _admit_ it bothers him, and…

Somehow he starts talking. About Bruce. The old days. He edges around the stories, leaves gaping holes. The kid listens with determined intensity, face screwed up, thinking hard, like he thinks there’s gonna be a test later.

“For a long time it seemed unreal,” Dick admits. His Robin days have a dreamlike gloss in his memories, like the whole world was bursting with color. Like it was all a circus show, still. “It was like playacting,” he says aloud. “Like a game.”

“What changed?”

“Two-Face,” Dick admits, and immediately regrets it, jerking out of the trance he’d gotten lost in.

He _never_ talks about Two-Face. And he especially doesn’t want to talk about Two-Face to _Tim Drake_.

“Anyway,” Dick backtracks. “That was all a long time ago.”

But it’s too late. The kid’s eyes are sharp.

( _Detective_. Maybe figuring out their identities wasn’t a fluke, after all.)

“Did someone die?” Timmy asks.

What? “Sorry?”

Timmy’s got the _I’m-making-deductions_ face on. Dick recognizes it from New York, when they were tracking down Barracuda and Chulo. “You said something went wrong with Two-Face when you were Robin,” he says. His gaze is unnervingly sharp. “Did someone die?”

Kid wins _zero_ prizes for tact. “It’s a long story.”

“What happened?”

“Not a lot. Look -”

“It sounds important,” Tim persists.

Tim Drake is the nosiest person that Dick has _ever_ met. If the Robin thing doesn’t work out, he could always go apprentice with Vicki Vale. 

“You just don’t quit, do you?”

“Who _else_ is gonna tell me?” Tim looks frustrated. “Look, I _know_ that you don’t - that you -”

Dick’s kind of curious where that sentence was gonna end, but the kid cuts himself off and glares at the skylight instead.

“That I what?”

He gets a wary look instead of an answer. “I’m just trying to get better at this,” Tim says after a moment, staring steadfastly into the skylight. “I know I’m not good enough yet, okay? I _know_. But nobody will _tell_ me anything. I can guess, but it’s not the same. If you won’t tell me about Two-Face, can you at least tell me about _Jason_?”

Tell him _what_? And anyway: “Knowing our private business isn’t the same as getting better at being Robin,” Dick points out testily.

“But something went wrong with Two-Face, right?” Tim insists. “And Jason _died_. If I know the mistakes you made, I can avoid them.”

The little _brat_. “Pretty sure you’ll make mistakes of your own, _Timmy_.”

“I _know_ that! But if I know what to expect, I can make _fewer_ mistakes.”

He ...has a point, actually, much as Dick hates to admit it.

Knowing how Dick screwed up with Two-Face might help Tim avoid making the same mistakes. That’s true. Two-Face is still out there. So is the Joker. And if Dick knows Bruce, he’s been about as forthcoming as a steel vault. And Alfred’s all British reserve. No wonder the kid’s seized on _Dick_ as the weak link in the chain.

Helping Tim Drake become the bestest Robin he can be is not Dick’s greatest life goal. But.

But.

This isn’t a game, what they do.

He remembers Two-Face. The death. The beating. Dick’s had other close calls, since, but… that was one of the closest.

“Okay,” he says. Takes a breath. “Fine. Look. Here’s what happened.”

Tim Drake asks about a million questions, of course. Dick does his best to answer.

He feels light-headed, off-balance. He’s never told this story to anyone. Not Wally or Roy, not even Donna. Bruce knows, of course, he was _there_ , but… dredging it all up again...

It’s not actually a long story. Two-Face threatened a man. Dick tried to save him. He failed. Missed what Two-Face was planning: a _two_ -part trap. When Dick cut the rope that would’ve strangled Lawrence Watkins, the man fell through a trapdoor and drowned instead.

Bruce saw the whole thing. He was a prisoner. Dick was supposed to be _saving_ him. But he didn’t. He got distracted by Watkins, just like Two-Face wanted him to be. And when Watkins went down, Dick instinctively dived for him - even though Two-Face was _right there_ and he _knew_ better - and he got grabbed, and captured, and beaten half to death. 

Less than useless. Bruce had to rescue himself _and_ rescue Dick.

That wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was what came after.

It’s fine. It was a long time ago.

No big deal, right?

“Anyway,” he finishes. “That was - that’s it. Now you know my big screw-up. I got Watkins killed and I almost got B killed.”

Tim Drake’s eyes are steady, unreadable. Dick doesn’t know what he’s given away, telling this story. Nothing. Too much.

“It sounds like a no-win situation,” Tim says carefully. “The important thing is that you both came out alive.”

He’s _definitely_ given away too much, if Tim Drake is revealing previously unseen reservoirs of tact.

Patrol takes _forever_ , after that.

* * *

Bruce wants him to be Batman.

Dick sort of suspected this was coming, but it’s still surreal.

It happens like this: when they get back from patrolling, Bruce tells the kid to go get cleaned up - he’s got a nasty scrape near the elbow - and not come back until he’s through.

As soon as the kid’s out of sight, Bruce turns to Dick - and wordlessly hands him a Batman costume.

“See if it fits,” Bruce says gruffly.

It fits. Dick pulls on the costume piece by piece, more slowly than he really needs to - settling the cape on his shoulders, buckling the belt, flexing his fingers inside the spiked gauntlets.

It fits.

* * *

He’s in the Cave, wearing the Batman costume. Not far away, Bruce is talking to the kid. Explaining the situation to him. That he’ll be leaving for a while while he continues his recovery.

“It’s been a long night, Robin. It’s time for a change. But I can’t leave Gotham without a Batman and I can’t afford to make a mistake.”

“You don’t have to worry, Bruce,” the kid says. And then adds, pointedly, “ _This_ time… you made the _right_ choice.”

Bruce winces. Like they’ve had this fight before.

Huh. That’s … surprising. Dick had forgotten: Bruce picked Azrael, but the kid, who actually had to work with him, didn’t like Azbats one bit. But…when Dick criticized Bruce for picking Azrael, earlier, Tim defended the choice. So, what, is the Kid Wonder just reflexively argumentative?

Anyway. “I can’t replace you, Bruce, but I’d be lying if I said it’s not going to be wild standing in for you.”

“Thank you, Dick.”

Wow. An actual thank you, with Dick’s real name, no less. It’s a whole new Bruce. What comes next, though? Even crazier.

“Robin’s right. I made a mistake in choosing Jean Paul… but this time the legacy passes into _proper_ hands.”

Whoa. Okay. Was that - did Bruce just -

Something about getting what he thought he wanted is abruptly terrifying. Bruce is _leaving_. His cape, his city - everything Bruce cares about, suddenly in Dick’s hands. _Entrusted_ to him.

What if he _isn’t_ up to this?

He’d better be.

Dick mutters a prayer under his breath.

“What was that?”

Right. He’s not alone, he’s still got an audience, and the kid - _Robin_ \- is looking at him expectantly. Perform now, panic later.

“Nothing,” Dick says. “Just talking to, uh, myself.”

“So talk to _me_.” But there’s that telltale amused twitch in the kid’s mouth that suggests Timmy Drake knows _exactly_ what Dick’s thinking. ”What do we do now… Batman?”

What a good question.

* * *

Instinctively, Dick looks to Bruce, who’s retreated into the shadows, but all he gets is a nod, one that he hasn’t seen in _years_ , the one that means: _your call now, Robin_.

Okay. Dick’s led teams before. He literally just patrolled with the kid _tonight_. He can handle giving instructions to a thirteen-year-old.

“Head home for now,” he tells the kid, fighting the urge to look at Bruce _again_. “Tomorrow night we’ll patrol again. You’ll meet me, um -“

“Here,” Bruce cuts in.

Normally, Bruce’s interference would be annoying, but at the moment Dick’s kind of grateful.

“Okay,” Tim Drake says after a moment. “I’ll head out then. There’s nothing else?” He’s still in the Robin costume, and he’s looking at Dick for guidance, and _wow_ , this is _insane_.

“Done for now,” Dick says. “See you tomorrow.”

The kid nods. He grabs what looks like a backpack and heads toward a tunnel that Dick doesn’t recognize - maybe it comes up somewhere in the Manor grounds? Kid hesitates before leaving, though, looking backward. “Hey, Bruce. Is, um, is Alfred gonna come back? Now that Azrael’s gone?”

Alfred’s gone somewhere?

Bruce’s face is a wall, unreadable. “No.”

“But,” Tim Drake says. “He might - maybe he’ll come back when _you_ come back? From wherever you’re going?”

“No,” Bruce says, in the tone that means, _Dismissed, Robin_.

“Right,” Tim says. He looks unhappy. “Okay, well. Uh. Have a good trip?”

Bruce makes the face that means _your pleasantries are unnecessary but I’m tolerating them_.

“And _don’t_ do anything reckless,” Tim says. “Remember, you’re still healing. Don’t forget your physical therapy exercises.”

Bossy little kid.

Dick sort of wonders if Bruce will get annoyed at him, but Bruce just grunts. He’s gone over to the Batcomputer and is pulling up files, not looking at the kid anymore.

“Okay,” Tim Drake says again. “Okay, so… bye. See you tomorrow, Dick.”

“Bye,” Dick says, ‘cause _somebody_ should.

The kid heads off into the tunnel and disappears without another word from Bruce.

* * *

Hmm.

Okay, that wasn’t _hostile_ , exactly, and Bruce has never been exactly _effusive_ , but… Bruce is gonna be gone for a while, and that wasn’t much of a goodbye. Is Bruce mad at the kid about something? There are weird undercurrents here. And where exactly _is_ Alfred? Dick hasn’t seen him yet, but he’d sort of assumed he’d be upstairs in the Manor.

“Bruce?” Dick prompts.

“The case files for the past few months are…lacking,” Bruce says from the computer, not looking over. “Both during Azrael’s tenure, and for some time before that. I updated the most critical ones while you were on patrol, but there are gaps…”

Right. Business it is.

An hour later, and they’re still in the Cave, finally wrapping up all the information Bruce wants to give him.

As a kid, as _Robin_ , Dick spent an uncountable number of hours wishing that Bruce would trust him more, see him as a grown-up, as an equal rather than a child.

But being trusted with this much - being given control of _everything_ \- is a lot more overwhelming now that it’s _real_.

Bruce gives him a long list of numbers to call if there’s an issue with the money. Or the Manor. Or the equipment. Or the uniforms. Dick gets the new passcodes for the computer. And the keys to the Batmobile. And a map of the tunnels. And a revised map of Gotham’s neighborhoods. And a warning that the neighborhoods have changed significantly in the past year and to be prepared for that. And a warning that Azrael’s behavior may have damaged Batman’s relationship with the police force (meaning: Gordon). And…

The point is: it’s a lot.

“Any rogues in particular I should watch out for?” Dick asks, trying to get back on firmer ground.

Bruce frowns. “I can’t be sure. You’ll have to ask Tim.”

Right. Because Bruce has been out-of-town.

“Do I need to - talk to his parents or anything?” Shit. “I mean, his dad? 

“It shouldn’t be necessary. Tim handles all that.”

“Is he…” _What do you think of him, is he better than me_ , Dick wants to ask, ridiculously. Wants to know. Doesn’t want to know. “Is he okay in the field?”

(Would you like to rank the Robins, Bruce? If two is company, three is a _pattern_. How does the new one match up to me? To the dead kid? Did you ever miss me at _all_?)

But maybe Bruce can still hear what he doesn’t say, or some of it, because the answer is unexpectedly direct: “He’s… different. From you. From Jason.” Bruce frowns into the middle distance. “But you’ll form your own judgments.”

Which tells Dick exactly nothing.

He’s gonna have to _work_ with the kid. Batman and Robin. Stupid that it’s only sinking in _now_. Forget _one_ rooftop interrogation: Dick’s just let himself in for _weeks_ of them.

“Is there anything in particular you want me to do with him?” Dick prods.

“Up to you.” But Bruce relents. “He’s … quick. Good with computers. His fighting abilities are… a work-in-progress. Or they were. But my information is out-of-date. He’s been working with Valley, and he’s been patrolling alone. It may have sharpened his skills. And he’ll have been training on his own, of course.”

It’s weirdly infuriating that Bruce apparently considers Tim Drake an independent agent at _thirteen_ even though Dick didn’t rate that much trust at _sixteen_.

“Sounds like he’s pretty competent,” Dick says, trying not to snap. “Does he have any _flaws_?”

Bruce has to think about it. “He admires you. Greatly.”

What. That’s not even true. And also: “That’s a _flaw_?”

Bruce makes an impatient gesture. “He may be over-eager to prove himself. Reckless. You’ll have to keep an eye on it.”

That’s ridiculous.

“He’s a fan of superheroes, sure,” Dick says, remembering Gar and the newspaper articles. “But if he’s been working with _you_ , I doubt he’ll have a heart attack working with _me_.”

Although…despite himself, Dick finds himself reassessing the staring. And the weirdly-detailed attempt to catalogue Dick’s entire Robin career tonight. And the kid showed up in New York and asked for help three different times with no encouragement at _any_ time. Plus, never forget: _stalker_.

No. Come on. And anyway, _if_ that was true, the kid must be over it by now.

Surely?

“He admires _you_ ,” Bruce says, oblivious to Dick’s mental crisis. Per usual. “With good reason. You’ve accomplished a great deal, in New York. And you work well together. He can be somewhat… guarded. Reticent. Well. You know. But he trusts you. You’ll … be good for each other, I think.”

Dick has no idea how to react to this. _You’ve accomplished a great deal_ is wildly flattering, except that the city is incensed against the Titans, and Dick recently got fired from the team, which Dick wouldn’t really define as _accomplishments_. _He admires you_ … could _maybe_ be true, although, again, on the basis of _what?_

And _reticent_ is pretty much the _last_ word that Dick would use to describe Tim Drake.

“Thanks?” he tries.

Bruce grunts.

It’s sort of sad to realize Dick’s missed this.

* * *

Dick wasn’t exactly expecting a bonding session, and he didn’t necessarily want Bruce looking over his shoulder for a _long_ time, but he did think that Bruce would at least stay in Gotham for a _bit_. 

But no, as soon as Bruce has satisfied himself that Dick has all the relevant information, he announces that he’ll be off.

“You don’t want to at least stay the night?” Dick says, feeling uncertain and hating himself for it. He casts a glance at the stairs that lead up to the Manor clock. “We could go upstairs and -”

“ _No_ ,” Bruce says sharply, and then looks a bit sorry. “I need to … reassess. I’ve made a series of poor choices. Things need to change. _I_ need to change. I can’t do that here.” He’s frowning off into the middle distance again.

“I said stay the _night_ , not stay _forever_ ,” Dick says, a bit annoyed.

Quietly: “I can’t, Dick.”

 _Can’t_ , not _won’t_. Exposure of a vulnerability.

Dick holds his breath. Because that voice: this is a flicker of the old Bruce, right there, so close Dick could touch him. Just for a moment, like they’re partners again.

He can’t help responding to it, feels himself shifting. When he was a kid he always sort of thought Bruce needed looking after. It felt like Bruce’s vulnerabilities were in Dick’s keeping, whether he knew it or not. Stupid. But it’s an old instinct, one he can’t shake.

But why would the _Manor_ be a vulnerability? Bruce _loves_ the Manor.

“Bruce?” Dick asks, quiet.

It works. Bruce reluctantly turns, looks at him.

He looks so much older that Dick remembers. Is it Jason’s death that’s aged him? Failing to save Tim’s mom? Having his back broken? Realizing his handpicked successor was a crazy man? 

God. This has been a bad year, actually. Not just for Dick.

“Bruce, what’s going on?” Dick asks. “What’s wrong with the Manor?”

But Bruce’s face has already closed up again. “If you find the living conditions unsatisfactory, you may wish to hire personnel to rectify the situation. You should use the funds from the Madderson account. If you find the situation untenable, you can always relocate. The newest Wayne Enterprise building has a penthouse which -”

Oh, for - “You’re really not gonna tell me.”

“You’ll have to form your own judgments. The Manor has been … uninhabited… for some time. There may be wear and tear.”

Bruce and Alfred have been out of town for, at most, a few _months_. How bad can it be? And another thing: “Where _is_ Alfred, anyway?”

Long silence. “Traveling.”

“Traveling _where_?”

“Traveling. I can’t be more specific.”

Yeah, comfort session _over_. Bruce is _such_ an ass. 

“Fine,” Dick says, holding onto his temper as best he can. “Well, it was _great_ catching up with you, Bruce. Glad we had this talk. Guess we’re done here.”

“Yes,” Bruce says stiffly, after a while. “I suppose we are.”

* * * 

Dick regrets losing his temper almost immediately, but it’s too late: Bruce has already left. Gone out one of the Cave entrances.

Now it’s just Dick. Alone.

Master of the Manor. Keeper of the Cave. _Batman_.

It feels like his life has turned upside-down. Last week he was still hiding out in his apartment, avoiding the Titans. Now he’s the protector of Gotham. Like he’s gone from kid to adult in the space of a few _days_.

Well. No point sitting around.

* * *

When he goes upstairs to the Manor, nobody is there.

Bruce _said_ that, but… it’s different actually _seeing_ it. It’s obvious no one has lived here in months. Rooms closed up. Dust on the furniture covers. Windows boarded up, some of them broken.

It’s unsettling.

All this time, even when he was furious at Bruce, he had sort of assumed that Gotham would always be here. Steady and unchanging. That everything would just keep going on the way Dick remembered it. Even when Jason was here… everything was familiar. Like everything was preserved in amber, just with a different kid. Batman and Robin going on adventures, and Alfred upstairs fussing.

This is nothing like that.

Everything is different. Bruce is gone, and Alfred is gone, but that’s not even all. There are new tunnels in the Cave, and a new computer, and the trophies are rearranged. And the Manor that Alfred cared for so carefully and so obsessively … looks like an abandoned house.

Where _is_ Alfred? The last time they talked was when he called about Dick’s not-a-wedding. 

* * *

He ends up sleeping in his childhood bedroom, which weirdly still has all his stuff in it. A dusty time capsule to Dick-as-Robin, Dick-as-a-kid. He grew up in this room. The wall is still plastered over where Dick at thirteen angrily kicked a hole in it and then, panicked, tried to hide the evidence from Alfred for weeks. Same bed. Same dresser. School textbooks, guitar, stuff he barely remembers.

When he was last here, he was writing his goodbye note to Bruce. Right at that dresser. Maybe even with that same pen.

God, but being back in this house is messing with his head.

Back in Gotham. Back in the Manor. Back _here_. Surrounded by… everything he’s been running from. Can’t go back to New York, because he’s screwed everything up there too. Last chance, Grayson.

He’ll do better this time. He _has_ to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon: Dick and Tim’s conversation about his formative traumatizing experience with Two-Face is in Prodigal, and the memory continues to haunt Dick as an emblem of his failures. Tim’s nosiness - and backtracking attempt to reassure a lost-in-dark-memories Dick - are also canon. So is Dick's discomfort with the neglected and deserted Manor.
> 
> Also canon: Things between Tim and Bruce are sort of okay but a little tense. Bruce refused to work with him during the lead-up to getting his back broken (in which he’s essentially having a mental breakdown), and in the pre-Prodigal Robin issue where Bruce tells him there are going to be some changes (i.e. Dick-as-Batman), Tim's first thought is that "changes" means he'll be fired.
> 
> Meanwhile, on the Bruce-Wayne-Suffers front, Bruce ignored medical advice while abroad "recuperating" from his back injury in Knightsquest, and he frightened/upset Alfred so much that Alfred resigned (!) on the grounds that Bruce had a death-wish that Alfred wasn't going to enable. Ouch. The Bat-Butler was not happy.
> 
> Tim’s actually fourteen now, not thirteen - he’s just started high school - but Dick doesn’t know when his birthday was and so doesn’t know this.
> 
> Next up: Tim attempts to make small talk. It’s not super-effective. Also, cooking, chores, and Killer Croc.


	8. Prodigal 2

It’s strange, waking up alone in the Manor. Every room has a thousand memories, like being surrounded by ghosts and echoing spaces. The dust on everything makes it feel like he’s lost in time. He’s all alone in an empty mansion.

Except that actually he’s _never_ alone.

Because Tim Drake is incapable of taking a hint.

* * *

It goes like this:

Dick sleeps in the next day, takes a discouraging look at the Manor kitchen (which only has non-perishables), heads out to buy groceries, _gets lost_ , because Alfred always did the driving, and finally makes it back for a weirdly lonely late breakfast. Dick’s lived alone before, of course, but … being in the Manor kitchen all by himself, no Alfred fussing, no Bruce … 

It’s fine.

He wants to do something to make the Manor look more like home, but the whole thing feels strangely overwhelming, so he winds up tackling one of the least-practical tasks first: he heads upstairs to try to putty up some panes for the smashed windows of the second-floor library, which apparently got taken out by an angry tree.

He’s trying, with limited success, to get the broken glass out of the window without cutting himself on it, when he hears it:

 _Creak_.

Someone stealthy behind him, maybe ten feet away, in the doorway.

He pretends not to notice, staring hard at the broken window, even as his instincts kick into overdrive. Azrael, back for a second round? A robber, checking out a seemingly-abandoned house? Dick would love to fight, actually. He’ll have to watch himself - right now he’s Dick Grayson, not a vigilante - but anyone can get a few lucky hits in. 

There’s a nice heavy volume of history something-or-other next to him on a small table. Dick reaches for it -

“Hi, Dick!” chirps a _very familiar voice_ , just before Dick throws the book at him.

He turns.

Nope. That is definitely Tim Drake. Complete with backpack. For _God’s_ sake.

Dick double-checks the window, but no: still only early afternoon.

“The _hell_ ,” Dick says, “are you doing here? How did you even get in?”

“I’ve got a key,” Tim says, which, okay, makes sense. “And I, uh, I got out of school early today. I thought maybe we could do some training? Or you could tell me more about some of your old cases?” He looks hopeful.

Yeah, _no_. Talking about old cases with Tim Drake was a huge mistake and Dick paid for it in Two-Face nightmares last night. _Never again_. The kid detective can pry on his own time.

“It’s not even sunset yet,” Dick says. “And I’m busy.”

“Anything I can do?” Tim asks, looking around.

“Not really.”

“Let me know if there is,” Tim says, nodding…

And then he _doesn’t leave_.

* * *

Dick’s not gonna continue making an idiot of himself with the window panes while the kid _watches_ him, so he heads downstairs and starts washing his breakfast dishes.

(“So, Dick, I read that in New York you and the Titans -”)

And then he scrubs the sink.

(“It’s really a mess in here, huh? I feel like I didn’t appreciate Alfred enough. He was always so -”)

And then he reorganizes the food in the fridge.

(“So, uh, I’ve been meaning to thank you for all your help in New York - I feel like we made a really good team, tracking Barracuda and Chulo -”)

None of it makes any difference. 

No matter what he does, Tim Drake trails after him. Eternally undeterred.

* * *

After about an hour of being subjected to Tim Drake’s dogged attempts at small talk, Dick has a pretty good guess why Alfred liked him: Tim Drake is a kid who really, _really_ wants to be liked. He’s a _bit_ oblivious, but his eyes are calculating. Every time he starts up with a new conversational gambit, his eyes flit to Dick’s to see the effect he’s having.

He says polite things about the Manor. He says polite things about Bruce and Alfred. He says polite things about _Dick_. He tries to make jokes. He asks after the Titans. If the kid says something annoying and Dick lets his irritation show on his face, the kid immediately veers to a new topic to try a _different_ placate-the-wild-Nightwing tactic.

It’s like being trapped at a never-ending gala with a guest list of _one_. 

It’s enough to make Dick miss the completely tactless kid who showed up at the circus and then at his apartment.

He wastes some time trying to figure out if the kid has _always_ been trying this hard to impress him (and just sucked at it?) or if this is a new thing. Thinking back, in their previous encounters in New York, the kid always urgently wanted something from him. The first time: to get him to go back to Robin. The second time: to get training. The third time: a little more unclear, but Dick’s pretty sure the kid wanted to get him to do something about Azrael. So, what, is the kid just extremely committed to whatever self-imposed mission he’s on? One-track mind, like Bruce? Or maybe the kid was just too out of his depth or too anxious to do the socialite thing?

Anyway, _now_ , the ulterior motive is pretty clearly just _be liked_.

 _Why_ , Dick wonders. Habit? What’s his endgame? The kid’s _already_ Robin. Dick’s already basically agreed to train him. Not _twenty-four-seven_ , mind you. But they’ve already worked together and even if Dick _hated_ him, it’s not like Bruce takes Dick’s advice about personnel, which must be obvious to the kid after the Azrael mess. _Dick_ had to prove _he_ could work with the new Robin, not the other way round.

Hmmm. That might not be obvious to the kid, though.

“Look,” Dick says, cutting off Tim Drake’s latest awkward compliment. “Kid. No offense, but you don’t have to hang around here all day. Don’t you need to go home for lunch?”

“No, it’s okay. I ate at school. So, I was wondering… in New York, did you ever -”

“You should probably go home for a _bit_ though, right?” Dick says, possibly a bit pointedly but this is ridiculous. “We won’t be patrolling until sunset. Your dad’s probably missing you.”

“No, he’s out of town,” Tim says. Sideways look. “Um. For physical therapy. Anyway, he won’t be back for a couple days, so it’s just Mrs. Mac.”

Argh. “Maybe Mrs. _Mac_ is missing you.”

“It’s okay,” Tim says. “I told her she could have the day off and she put my meals in the freezer.” He shrugs. “I’ll get them later.”

So apparently Mrs. Mac is household help and not a family friend, because the Drakes are apparently _just that rich_ , although not rich enough to buy their kid a clue.

He gives up. 

“Well, _I’m_ hungry,” Dick says at last. “I’m going to make myself lunch.” 

Tim Drake looks briefly uncertain before he covers it up again. “Oh. Right.”

He trails after Dick to the kitchen, and he props his elbows up on the kitchen countertop, and he settles in to… watch Dick make himself a pastrami sandwich. 

Despite his claim to have eaten at school, the kid’s giving him major _feed-me_ eyes. Like a sad little puppy dog in a South Face hoodie. Dick ignores him.

Dick _doesn’t_ have to cooperate with this. The kid _has_ a family. He has a dad. He has Bruce, or he will, once Bruce comes back. He has no right to look this lonely. And anyway, even if he _is_ having some kind of tragic little rich kid problems, that doesn’t make it _Dick’s_ problem. _Dick_ did not sign up to babysit him. If Tim Drake is having issues, he can take them to his prep school friends.

Dick doesn’t have anything _against_ the kid exactly - they’re _Batman and Robin_ for right now, surreal as _that_ is, and they’re gonna work together, but … that doesn’t mean Dick wants to _hang out_ with the kid while he’s here, not out of costume. It’s not like they have anything in common.

(He's very aware that the kid's eyes are tracking the progress of the pastrami out of its packaging onto Dick's sandwich.)

...On the other hand, it’s increasingly clear that if he wants the kid to leave, he’s gonna have to just _demand_ it. And even though Tim Drake is annoying, Dick feels weirdly reluctant to just _tell_ him to get lost. Timmy’s so earnest that kicking him out of the house feels a bit like Dick would be kicking a puppy. A puppy that follows you around everywhere, gives you big eyes, and gnaws on all your stuff.

And sometimes yaps in an annoying way. 

It’s kind of a perfect analogy, really.

He still has every _right_ to kick the kid out, but…

“Do you want a sandwich?” he mutters.

Tim Drake brightens. “Oh, can I? Thanks.”

* * *

Okay. Since the kid’s gonna be here _anyway_ , maybe Dick should get to know him a bit, ask _him_ some personal questions. 

After all, they’re gonna be _working_ together. They don’t have to be best friends or anything, but it would be helpful to know literally _anything_ about the kid other than _rich boarding school brat_. Dick knows himself, and he _knows_ he works better with people he likes. This partnership is gonna suck if Dick has to grit his teeth through all their conversations.

The Gotham rich kids drove him nuts when he was a kid, but - it’s not like they were _devoid_ of good qualities. Almost everybody has something likeable about them, if you look hard enough. Some of them really loved their pets, or their cousins, or their ballet classes. 

Tim Drake, too, must have some sort of humanizing qualities. He’s thirteen. He can’t _actually_ be a hardworking robot fueled solely by casework and nosiness.

So Dick’s interrogating _him_ for a change.

It’s… not going well.

“And your school’s going well?” Dick asks, possibly for the second or third time.

“Uh huh. I mean, yes. I’m learning a lot.”

“Are you in any clubs?”

“Not really,” the kid admits, and immediately parries with, “Were _you_ in any clubs when _you_ were in school?”

“The school newspaper, for a bit. So are you gonna join a -”

“Journalism, really? That’s cool. What did you do?”

“Nothing much,” Dick says. “Are you _gonna_ join an after-school club?”

Timmy eyeballs him like there’s a secret correct answer and he can deduce it if he stares at Dick hard enough. “I haven’t decided yet,” he says at last. “Do you think it would be a good idea?”

“Up to you,” Dick says. 

He has a headache.

He’s starting to understand why Bruce called the kid _reticent_. Not that Tim’s outwardly stonewalling. He’s extremely cooperative. He’s just not _helpful_. He perks up when asked questions, but then he explains exactly nothing.

Things at school? Going fine. Things with his dad? Also fine. Personal life? Fine. 

The kid’s willing to elaborate - sort of - but everything comes out in the _junior businessman of America_ voice. His dad’s recovery is going well and they’re very optimistic. He feels like he’s settling in well at his new school. And so forth. The kid talks like he’s at a gala making small talk or giving an interview to the _Gazette_.

Nobody is this well-adjusted, not even Tim Drake.

Dick’s having vivid flashbacks to that time when the kid showed up with a folder full of paparazzi photos and rattled off a bunch of incredibly intrusive advice, and then clammed up when asked for his own _name_.

(Can dish it out but can’t take it, huh, Timmy?)

What does the kid even have to be secretive _about_?

* * *

They’ve finished the sandwiches, and Dick can’t think of anything else to do in the kitchen, so he heads over to one of the living rooms to start taking plastic off the furniture - more for something to do with his hands than anything else.

Once he’s run out of plastic, he grabs a washrag and starts trying to wipe dust off some of the tables.

(Tim Drake does not volunteer to help. Because of _course_ he doesn’t.)

Tim Drake...watches. He’s finally shut up, a bit, but he’s still curled up on one of the couches, _not leaving_.

The kid’s phone rings.

“Oh, uh, hang on.”

Tim sidles out of the room - which, okay - and when Dick casually goes over to wipe off a cabinet on the far side of the room, it’s hard to catch what the kid’s saying, because he’s got his voice lowered like he thinks he’s a secret agent.

Okay, so sue him: Dick’s curious.

He gives up on subtlety and just pokes his head out into the hallway with his best mild inquiring look.

But it’s nothing interesting after all.

“I really appreciate the invitation,” Tim Drake is saying, with the poise of a born socialite. “I just can’t make it. Maybe another time?” He listens. “I’ll let you know. Uh huh… I really don’t think so. You’ll have to play without me.” He darts a look at Dick, then, quickly: “I’ve got to go. See you tomorrow, Ives.”

He hangs up.

“Friend?” Dick asks. It’d be useful to get to know each other, he reminds himself. They’re gonna be working together.

“Yeah. I mean, yes. Sebastian Ives.” Pause. “He’s in a lot of my classes. We’ve, um, gotten to know each other.”

 _Sebastian_. Sounds fancy. Sebastian Ives the Third, maybe. And _last_ names. Very prep school. No, be nice.

“Good friend?” Dick asks.

Tim thinks. Then: “Yes. We don’t know each other well yet. But we have a lot in common. And…” Pause, then, somewhat diffidently, “I like his family. We’ve been introduced.”

Of course they have. Networking begins young, in Gotham. Not just in the boarding schools.

God, Dick had almost blocked this out of his memory, but now it’s coming back again. The maddening awkwardness of galas, the scions of different legacies making nice with each other. _So nice to meet you, I hear you’re Mr. Wayne’s ward, I suppose you’ll inherit? My father makes his money in high finance and of course I’ll take over the family business, and what do you think about Wayne Enterprises’s portfolio? _ Ugh.

(That’s not fair. They don’t really sound like that. Bad memories, though. He wonders what they say about him now. Dick Grayson, _ex_ -ward. Jesus, stop it.)

“I’m sure he’ll be a good contact for you,” Dick says, as mildly as he can.

Sideways look. “Yes,” Tim says after a bit. “He’s very, um. He’s very… capable. And. And accomplished. He gets straight As.” Narrow-eyed look as the kid tries to figure out if this will impress Dick.

If the kid gets straight As without Daddy’s help and a fleet of tutors, sure, Dick will be impressed. Though that almost certainly isn’t fair. Tim Drake’s genuinely smart, after all. Annoying as hell, but he _is_ smart. “What was he calling about? He wanted to meet up for something?”

“We hang out sometimes. It’s okay, I told him I was busy.”

 _You’ll have to play without me_. Alfred mentioned the kid had learned some sort of sport. He tries to remember. Some sort of rich-kid thing. Lacrosse? Skiing? No, wait, he remembers now: tennis. “Is he your tennis partner or something?”

“Kind of. Did _you_ ever play tennis?”

Aaaand they’re back to interrogations.

* * *

One hour to sunset. Dick’s been picking chores more-or-less at random, not that it’s deterred Tim Drake any. He suggests that the kid help him scrub the kitchen countertops, and the kid nods agreeably, because of _course_ he does. 

Dick’s very tempted to tell him to scrub _by himself_ , or tell him to go weed the garden, or _something_ insulting, just to see if that will finally get him an expression other than what he assumes is the kid’s best gala face. But that would be petty. It would be petty, and immature, and Dick is not gonna do it.

Even if it would be _very_ satisfying.

No. Be nice. Get to know him.

“So,” Dick says. He tries to think. The kid mentioned he liked his _new_ school, earlier. “You changed schools, right? You used to go to boarding school?”

“Fernacre,” Tim says. “It’s a bit out of Gotham. But, uh, I kind of dropped out? After December last year.” When his mom died, he must mean. “Because I went abroad, like, for training and things… This semester I’ve got a new school.” Then, after a half-second pause: “So, Alfred said _you_ went to Gotham Academy, right? Did you like it? Is that where you did journalism or was that somewhere else?”

 _You_ should do journalism, Dick doesn’t say. “Somewhere else,” he says. “So, where do you go?” He tries to think. Day schools in Gotham. “Gotham Academy? Anders Prep?”

“No, um, Gotham Heights. It’s really close to my house. So do you -”

Hang on. “Gotham Heights _High_?”

A high school? A _public_ high school? In the suburbs, but still. The Gotham Heights kids are well-off, but they don’t usually live in _manors_.

“Yes,” Tim says. “I’m a freshman. So do you -”

“Aren’t you thirteen? Did you skip a grade or something?”

Tim Drake looks a bit offended. “I’m _fourteen_. Since July.”

“And you transferred from _Fernacre_ … to Gotham Heights,” Dick checks.

Gotham Heights is a _big_ step down if he used to go to _Fernacre_. Fernacre’s one of the ones that Gothamites like to name-drop just to show how rich they are - it’s worse than Gotham Academy, which at least _pretends_ to have a social conscience. Fernacre is just _tacky_.

“ _Yes_ ,” Tim says, terse. “I just said that.”

Hmm.

Are the Drakes having money issues? The kid’s caginess about his school - and the disinterest in after-school activities - is taking on a new light. Is the kid sulking because he has to slum it with the plebs now?

“That must be kind of a change for you,” Dick says. “Must be tough, having to leave your friends.”

Tim hesitates. Eyes him warily. “I didn’t really know them that well? And I like Gotham Heights better, honestly. I, uh, I kind of… transferred myself. When my dad was in the hospital.”

“Your dad was okay with that?”

“Oh, um, definitely,” Tim says. “I mean. Not right away because of the, um, the coma. But he definitely approves now.” He hesitates. “Because it builds character. And. And also it’s a productive learning environment for me. And - and it’s good to - participate in the community?”

He eyes Dick to see if he’s buying this.

Yeah, _no_. There’s something fishy here. Money issues are looking likelier by the minute. “It’s great that you’re building character,” Dick says dryly.

Tim eyes him like he’s trying to figure out whether Dick means this sarcastically. Dick keeps his expression neutral.

“And anyway,” Tim says at length, “it’s a lot more practical, right? In boarding school they were always checking up on me. Now it’s a lot easier to sneak out and be Robin.” Pause. Then, a bit defensive: “And there’s nothing wrong with Gotham Heights.”

Hmm.

Okay, so the kid’s not a complete walking stereotype. Maybe he really did want to change schools.

Guiltily, Dick catches himself trying to think of a negative way to interpret this new information. Too stuck up for boarding school, wanted to be a big fish in a small pond. Maybe the public school kids are easy to boss around, but the boarding school kids pushed back. 

Then he’s just frustrated with _himself_. Dick’s usually got a better handle on himself than this. Danny Chase was way more annoying, but Dick didn’t spend every second of the day resenting him. He’s worked with all kinds of difficult people.

But there’s something about Tim Drake that just gets his hackles up.

The kid’s stopped scrubbing while he talked, leaning against the counter.

“Are you gonna scrub, or are you gonna talk?”

He wonders if he’s gonna get pushback - it’s kind of unfair, because _Dick_ stopped for a bit, too - but there’s only a sharp pause, and then the kid pastes on the socialite smile again. “I’ll scrub,” he says sunnily.

Forget Bristol. Tim Drake would be at home in _Stepford_.

* * *

Sundown. At _last_. Dick cannot _wait_ to punch something.

“Fuel intake and then we’ll hit the town,” he says.

“Fuel intake?” Tim says hopefully.

Dick would really like to send him home for dinner, but honestly at this point it seems like kind of a waste of time since he’d have to come straight back anyway, plus the kid’s giving him big _feed-me_ eyes again.

(Of course he’s not gonna go home. Of _course_ he’s not.)

“No problem, kid,” Dick says dryly.

Tim trails after Dick to the kitchen, and he props his elbows up on the kitchen countertop, and he settles in to… watch Dick make spaghetti.

“I can’t believe you can actually cook,” Tim says.

Seriously? “I like to eat.”

“So does Bruce, but _he_ has to order Chinese when Alfred’s not here.”

 _I’m aware,_ Dick manages not to say. _I did live with him, you know_.

The Bat-signal shows up in the sky just as Dick gets out (his!) ice-cream for dessert.

Dick has never been more grateful to see it in his life.

_Bless you, Jim Gordon. May your evidence lockers be forever full._

* * *

Cave, costumes… and they’re off.

Dick is Batman. He is _Batman_.

It still doesn’t feel entirely real.

* * *

The costume is - incredibly uncomfortable, actually. His peripheral vision is shot. The cape is too heavy.

(He doesn’t want to try adjusting it when the kid’s _right there_ , though.)

Dick tries the Batman-voice on Gordon. Gordon’s - not fooled, but okay. Dick will keep working on it.

(He’s half-convinced the kid is secretly laughing at him.)

Gordon gives them a mystery: four deadly attacks over the past month, all at night, in and along the river. Harbor Patrol spotted a shadowy large something in the water. So: an aquatic predator, except that Gordon’s consultants can’t match the bite-marks with any known animal.

They return to the Cave and Timmy runs the bite-marks with professional ease, but the Batcomputer can’t find a match either.

So, what? STAR Labs mutant? Extraterrestrial? “Gordon’s consultants were right,” he says aloud. “Animal dentition,” because the incisors are way bigger than human ones, “but the size and the shape of the bite is human.”

“Or as close to human as Waylon Jones gets,” Timmy says. He’s got the _I’m-making-deductions_ face on.

Huh? “And Waylon Jones is - ?”

“Killer Croc,” Tim says. 

...Right. Dick knew that.

“Bane broke him out of Arkham,” Tim Drake says. He’s already opened up a new map on the computer, plotting the attacks against a map of the river, and then - layering the sewer system over it? “But Croc and Bane got into a fight in the sewers. Right about here.”

The kid taps a place on the map. Dick recognizes it: big underground junction of different sewer lines, pretty dangerous because it’s got big tunnels and fast-moving wastewater.

“I got trapped between them,” Tim adds, making a face. “When the causeway collapsed, I managed to save myself, but Croc got pulled under by the current. So …” He scans the pipeline map. “So he must have washed into Gotham Harbor _here_ , right? We thought he was dead - that’s probably why Gordon didn’t consider him as a suspect. But he must have survived, and he’s been attacking people along the river.” He nods to himself. “Killer Croc.”

Dick checks it over himself, hoping to find something - anything - wrong, but no, the kid’s logic is solid.

Geez. Dick’s feeling very superfluous now.

“Right,” he says, a beat too late. “Let’s go find him.”

 _You are not competing with him_ , Dick reminds himself. _He is your teammate. Having a smart teammate is a good thing._

He knows, in theory, that he hasn’t actually lost a Best Detective contest to the kid or anything like that. This proves _nothing_. It’s not even that unexpected. Dick’s been out of Gotham for ages. He’s been focused on New York, on the enemies of the Titans. It’s gonnatake time to get back up to speed on the Gotham rogues gallery. That’s _normal_.

(He feels like a fraud anyway.)

_Get your head into gear, Grayson._

* * *

He doesn’t do any training with the kid before they head out to fight Killer Croc. No sparring. No test of the kid’s reflexes.

Somehow it slips Dick’s mind that even though he’s teamed up with Tim Drake several times before this, they have never before ever fought anybody actually challenging. Anybody actually _dangerous_.

This is his first big mistake.

It’s not his last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon: Tim and Dick spend a hilariously large amount of their time as Batman and Robin out-of-costume as Dick does various household chores and gets Tim to help (at one point, he washes and folds a mountain of white towels, which - okay, but _why_? did he use all those towels himself? did Bruce and Alfred leave behind a bunch of unwashed towels? _explain yourself_ , canon!).
> 
> Also canon: Dick was on the school paper in middle school, Tim plays tennis (though not with Ives), and Tim starts public school while Jack Drake’s still in the hospital. Jack is canonically skeptical and periodically threatens to send him back to boarding school. Tim tends to be cagey about his fights with his dad, though: in "To the Father I Never Knew" (Batman 480), he writes an _incredibly_ bitter letter to his dad before… burning it in the fireplace and telling Bruce and Alfred that he’s happy to go back home.
> 
> Dick making Tim spaghetti (awwww), Gordon interrupting dessert, the failure of Dick’s rough-and-spooky Batman voice to convince Gordon, and Tim solving the Killer Croc case are all canon, and some dialogue is adapted from Prodigal. Canon does _not_ explain why on earth both Dick and Gordon hear “aquatic predator” and _don’t_ realize it’s Killer Croc, so I’ve done my best. I feel like Dick totally gets a pass for having been out of Gotham for a while, but - Gordon? Really?
> 
> Next up: Dick does some reassessing. If you’ve been patiently waiting for Dick to start - maybe, possibly - rethinking his attitude toward his new Robin, look forward to it. XD
> 
> _The fight is a disaster. Croc almost kills the kid. Then his henchmen almost shoot the kid. Then Dick almost gets shot._


	9. Prodigal 3

The fight is a disaster.

Croc almost kills the kid. 

Then his henchmen almost _shoot_ the kid. 

Then _Dick_ almost gets shot. 

Just when Dick is about to well and truly panic, though, Croc gets shot by friendly fire, and the battle comes to a short and brutal end.

Dick’s heart is still pounding.

They did not deserve to win this fight. They are alive by the skin of their teeth and incredible, _incredible_ luck.

He gets the kid to call an ambulance, and they swing off, regroup on a nearby rooftop to watch the cops swarm in. Dick watches the paramedics carefully manhandle a tranqued Croc out of the net Dick caught him in. Croc’s moaning, his reptile skin riddled with bullets. 

Croc will live.

Dick almost didn’t. _Tim_ almost didn’t.

This is bad, bad, bad.

* * *

On the way back to the Cave, he tries to mentally regroup, think through it logically. 

First problem, so _stupidly_ obvious that Dick didn’t think about it before: no metahuman backup.

Fighting with the Titans is a luxury, and Dick’s gotten used to it. With the Titans, metahuman strength is always a shout away. Dick’s strong, but he’s not a brawler - he’s an acrobat. When there’s a contest of pure brute strength, he’s gotten into the habit of leaving it to other people.

He can’t do that anymore. When he punched Croc, the guy barely even flinched, and Dick’s hand is still stinging. Then Dick moved too slow, and Killer Croc grabbed hold of him, and almost snapped his ribs.

Dick needs to train with this new costume - a _lot_. He’s gonna need _all_ his speed and _all_ his flexibility. And even that isn’t gonna be enough. He’s gonna need new moves. Dick’s never been The Big Guy before. He’s always, always had backup that’s stronger than he is. Now he doesn’t. Tim is _tiny_. He’s gonna be no help at all.

Dick’s gonna need to figure out how to beat big bruisers _by himself_ , no cheating by calling in allies. 

He has… no idea how he’s gonna do that.

But he’s gonna have to figure it out fast.

* * *

They’re back in the Cave.

Tim Drake seems - bizarrely - kind of cheerful.

Does he seriously not get what a _disaster_ that was?

“It’s cool you had me call an ambulance for Croc,” Tim says. He kicks back in the Batcomputer chair, looking pleased. Like he thinks they did _well_ or something. “ _Huge_ change from sidekicking for Jean-Paul. I think we make a good team, don’t you?” He eyes Dick hopefully.

Does the kid have a _death wish_?

“Thanks for trusting me to handle those shooters on my own,” Tim goes on.

Like it was a _choice_ Dick made as opposed to being trapped in Killer Croc’s death grip.

“Those bullets that hit Croc could’ve hit _you_ ,” Dick says.

He manages not to say anything else, but his tone must give away enough, because the kid looks defensive. “Lighten up. I’m fine.”

“There’s always a next time,” Dick bites out. “You were lucky _this time_.”

Timmy wilts a bit.

It’s not even his fault. It’s _Dick’s_ fault. 

The kid nearly got killed because he was trying to protect _Dick_. First trying to distract Croc. Then trying to take down the gunmen. If _Bruce_ had been there, he would’ve taken Croc out in one punch and then protected the _kid_ from the gunmen. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Dick says aloud, to the kid and the Cave and God and everybody. “I have no idea what I’m doing. I don’t think I can do this.”

“I think you’re doing fine.”

 _As if you’d know_, Dick manages not to say.

* * *

Dick’s total incompetence as Batman is _one_ problem.

The _other_ problem is Tim.

There are several bullet holes in the kid’s cape. That’s because he landed _in front of the shooters_ when he flipped out of Croc’s reach. Boneheaded move, but Dick’s pretty sure it happened because he didn’t have control of _where he was gonna land_ , which is actually a _worse_ problem. Then, when he was dodging gunfire, he landed on his wrist funny.

And that’s just the stuff that Dick _saw_.

Which means that either the kid had a really bad night…

Or he’s a _lot_ less good at the physical side of things than Dick was kind of assuming he would be.

* * *

“Look,” Dick says aloud. “I was thinking. It’s still early. Maybe we should do a bit of training before you head home.”

It’s not exactly early - midnight or thereabouts - but the kid doesn’t protest.

So he runs Tim Drake through a few basic stretches and exercises. Puts him on the parallel bars. Has him do a few flips. Checks his weight-lifting. 

All the things he _should_ have done before he ever took the kid out on the streets.

It’s… not great.

Tim’s not a complete disaster. For a fourteen-year-old who’s been training for less than a year, he’s downright talented. 

But he’s nowhere _near_ Dick’s skills at the same age.

Which… makes sense, of course, no circus training. Dick had known, in theory anyway, that a lot of his pre-existing skills adapted well into Bruce’s martial arts routines. From the beginning, there were plenty of things _he_ taught _Bruce_. Bruce never taught him to fall or flip or leap or tumble or do handsprings. Dick came in knowing all that stuff already.

Alfred and Bruce both talked about Tim’s need for training. And Tim himself said the same thing, and asked Dick for help. But somehow Dick never thought of it as Tim actually _needing_ training. Bruce himself trains constantly; so does Dick; it’s the only way to stay at the top of your game. He imagined Bruce polishing up the kid’s skills, pursuing ever-greater excellence. Why would he accept a Robin who was anything less than outstanding? 

Now he’s remembering that Tim’s main qualification for the job was being the only one who wanted it.

Tim’s watching him warily.

 _Say something encouraging. Oh god._ “You’ve been...practicing recently, right?”

“I’m just a bit rusty,” Tim mutters, so at least he’s _aware_ he sucks. “Azrael kicked me out of the Cave, remember?”

Right. For the past few months, _nobody_ has been training him. And no access to the equipment in the Cave.

Okay, so that explains _why_ he sucks, but that doesn’t explain how Dick is gonna _fix_ it. 

_Why_. Why did Dick not _pay attention_ when Bruce sent them on those team-ups together. If he hadn’t been so busy resenting Bruce’s _perfectly natural caution_ , maybe he would’ve noticed that the kid is one wrong move from _death_ at any given moment.

And another problem. The kid was heavily favoring his right wrist on the parallel bars. Which means he probably sprained the left one earlier. If Dick had known that, he wouldn’t have put the kid on the bars. But the kid didn’t say a word.

So he not only sucks at fighting, he also sucks at admitting when he needs help.

“Any injuries?” Dick asks. Maybe a bit pointedly.

Tim hesitates. “I’m fine.”

Dick gives him a minute to come clean. No dice, though.

“Show me your wrist.”

Tim Drake looks caught out. “It’s fine. I just twisted it a little.”

“ _Sit_. Now give me your hand.”

He checks a few places for fractures, but the kid’s lucky: nothing’s broken. The kid’s unnaturally still, eyes fixed on Dick. Nothing’s showing on his face, but his pulse is going a mile a minute, and he’s controlling his breathing, probably because he’s in _pain_ and he doesn’t want Dick to see.

The bars must’ve hurt like _hell_ , but he didn’t say anything. But of _course_ he didn’t say anything. The kid who sat uncomplaining in Central Park for _seven hours_ just because Dick told him to.

Trying to be impressive all damn day.

_Over-eager to prove himself. Keep an eye on it._

He _hates_ it when Bruce is right about stuff.

“Does it hurt when I press here?”

Sharp breath. “A bit.”

Dick mentally upgrades that to _a lot_. “We’re gonna need to ice this and compress it. And from now on we’re gonna tape up both your wrists before you do any flipping.” Or get him wrist guards. Why the _hell_ does he not have wrist guards.

Tim Drake looks defensive. “I was gonna ice it when I got home.”

“As opposed to _here_ , where I can _help_ you, boy genius?”

“I know how to _ice_ a _bruise_ ,” Tim says. “I don’t need help with _that_.”

Dick ignores this as it _deserves_ , goes to check out the medical supplies cabinets. They’ve been reorganized and they’re _really_ depleted, but he gets an ice pack, and an elastic bandage for later. 

His _own_ ribs are complaining, actually. He’d rather leave his own injuries for later, ideally when the kid’s not here, but...maybe better not. 

He grabs a few extra ice packs. Good role modeling, here we come.

* * *

About ten minutes later, he’s had to have the kid help him get the Batman costume off, which is _incredibly_ humiliating even though Dick’s trying very hard to chalk _that_ up to good role modeling too. _See, Timmy, asking for help is a good thing_. And what the hell, the kid already saw him almost get squashed like a bug by Killer Croc tonight, so it’s not like there’s much point clinging to wounded pride.

The kid did cop to an aching shoulder, which turned out to be pretty badly bruised, so at least Dick’s humiliation is serving some kind of useful purpose.

The kid’s eying him again.

“ _What?_ ” Dick says.

Tim startles. “Nothing. Um, thanks. For the ice and stuff.” 

He looks a bit shy and - and possibly genuinely grateful, which is... _weird_ , given that all Dick’s done so far is hand him a few ice packs. And after getting him hurt in the first place, too.

“No problem, kid,” he says aloud.

“I really was gonna ice it at home, though,” Tim says after a bit. “You don’t have to worry about me. I mean. I appreciate it. But -”

Oh, for - “ _You almost got shot_ ,” Dick snaps, and then regrets it when the kid flinches. “Look. _Kid_. You can’t - you have to _work_ with me, okay? I’m not - “ He breathes out. “I’m not Bruce. I can’t - I can’t tell when you’re hurt just by _looking_ at you.”

“It’s _really_ not that -“

“ _And_ ,” Dick says, because he might as well make this point while he’s at it, “I don’t know what you can and can’t do unless you _tell_ me. Those bars were a bad idea. You banged up your wrist _worse_ , right? _I_ didn’t know that was gonna be a problem, but _you_ did. You can’t do that. If there’s something you’re not sure you can handle, you have to _say so_ , and we’ll work around it. Okay?”

Silence.

“ _Okay_?”

More silence.

“If I told you every time I wasn’t sure about something, we would, like, never talk about anything else,” Tim says at last.

Dick looks at him, but if there was any uncertainty flickering over his face a moment ago, it’s already been hidden.

He’s looking away, not at Dick, but even from his profile Dick can make out the edges of a familiar expression: the set eyes and stubborn jaw of _he needs you_ and _Batman needs a Robin_. The _I’m not gonna take no for an answer_ expression.

It’s weird to realize, suddenly, that the stubborn expression is probably so rock-solid because it’s a mask in its own way. Determination layered over whatever the kid’s secret uncertainties are.

He’s so _small_. A little Bristol kid who, up until this past year, had probably never faced any danger worse than a bad report card. And now he’s dodging gunfire.

“Just,” Dick says. “You don’t have to tell me _everything_. Just. Try to talk to me a _little_ , okay?”

He wants something to do with his hands.

He wants to send the kid home.

He wants to go to bed and forget that this night ever happened.

“Listen,” he says instead. “ _I_ don’t know what I’m doing either. It’s not like it’s just you. So you don’t have to - to _perform_ , got it? Look… I did a bunch of stupid stuff too, when I was your age.” Trying to prove himself to Bruce. “But I’m not Bruce, okay? You don’t have to prove yourself to _me_. So stop acting like you’re on trial or something. It’s just us here.”

It’s not until he’s said it aloud that he really realizes why he’s been feeling so jumpy ever since Bruce took off.

It really is just the two of them. No backup. No nothing. No Bruce, no Kory, not even Alfred.

The Bristol kid and the carny screw-up.

And all of Gotham in their care.

“Look,” he says slowly. “After blowing it with the Titans, I’m not in the position to guide anyone. We’re in this _together_ , you and me. So I’m not gonna treat you like a kid. But _you_ have to remember you _are_ a kid, and you have to _tell_ me when I’m pushing too hard. Deal?”

Silence.

He can hear the rustle of the bats’ wings, overhead.

“Okay,” Tim says at last. “I’ll try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon: Tim's immense relief at working with a Batman who's not murder-happy, every bad thing that happens in the Croc fight scene, and Dick's horrified self-doubt afterward. Dick's actual dialogue during the Killer Croc fight scene includes the immortal lines: “ROBIN! WATCH OUT!” “ROBIN!” “ROBIN! THE OTHER ONE!” Tim, upon discovering that he’s just flipped _out_ of Croc’s reach but _into_ the firing sights of a bunch of gunmen, mutters in a small voice: “Terrific.” 
> 
> The different Robin strengths - Dick’s acrobatics, Tim’s deductions - are also canon. In the truly awesome Zero Hour comic right before Prodigal, time-displaced Robin!Dick teams up with Tim to solve a case. They’re obviously both smart and skilled, but Dick’s a way better athlete. Tim’s inner monologue as he follows Dick around is full of awed/depressed comments like “I’d break my _neck_ trying that move.” After Robin!Dick successfully somersaults over an aquarium and Tim goes splash, Dick comments “Looks like you need some help again,” and Tim thinks mournfully: “Like I needed him to remind me.” Tim proves himself in the end, though, by solving the case.
> 
> Next up: The next day. Dick spirals a bit, but Tim’s arrival, oddly enough, helps. Maybe this partnership thing will work out okay after all. Plus, training.
> 
> _It turns out that Tim Drake, despite being both willing and enthusiastic, does not actually know how to sweep. Or mop. Dick thought the principle of the one would follow from the other, but apparently not._
> 
> _It's... okay. It's kind of funny._


	10. Prodigal 4

The next day the nightmares wake Dick up early, so he heads down to the Cave to put the Batman costume on and actually try to get used to fighting in it. He tests himself: rings, parallel bars, punching bag, the works. It’s doable but it’s not ideal. It’s gonna take him weeks to fully adjust his style to the weight and the cape, but he doesn’t _have_ weeks.

In the meantime, his fighting skills are gonna be adequate at best. Good enough for a mugging, _not_ good enough for a dangerous fight.

Which leaves what? Intimidation? Stealth? Clever tricks?

He keeps thinking about Two-Face. In over his head, and Bruce almost _died_.

If it comes to something like that again - 

Bruce lived because he got _himself_ out. Dick failed him, but he managed to escape anyway.

At the time, when Bruce fired him, it felt horribly unfair, because it was just _one_ failure, after so long working together so well. And it still hurts like hell, and it still stings to know that Bruce didn’t - that he didn’t want -

(Adopted Jason after knowing him for, what, a _week_?)

Well. It still stings. It’s probably always gonna sting.

But from a purely practical perspective, he’s realizing with a kind of horror that _it was just one time_ doesn’t really cut it. Bruce was right: it _is_ a lousy excuse. This isn’t the kind of business where there’s _any_ room for error. You screw up once and people get _killed_.

If it happens again, if it’s not Bruce, if it’s _Tim_ -

Tim Drake is _fourteen_. _He’s_ the one who needs margin for error. _He’s_ the one who’s gonna need backup. If he gets in trouble, _Dick_ is the one who’s gonna have to bail _him_ out.

But if Dick barely cut it as Robin, and didn’t do much better as Nightwing - then how is he gonna -

Being alone in the Cave is not helping with these thoughts.

* * *

He struggles out of the Batman costume and heads upstairs, but the deserted manor isn’t much better either. He needs to _talk_ to someone, distract himself. 

He catches himself, somewhat horrifyingly, trying to figure out what time Tim Drake will get out of school. But it’s not even noon yet.

Is this _really_ what his life has come to? There’s gotta be _someone_ in his life other than a busybody high school freshman that he barely knows. His life has come to a sad pass if Tim Drake is the best he can do for company.

Okay, _think_.

Roy, definitely not. Dick _really_ doesn’t feel like talking to the new leader of the Titans, especially since Roy not _only_ wanted to kick Dick out, he _also_ wanted to do it so he could push his stupid _let’s get funding from the government_ idea, which is _not_ gonna end well, Dick _knows_ it’s not gonna end well, and - yeah. Not Roy. They’d just argue.

(All those years having each other’s backs, and Dick was there for him through the detoxing, but now that _Dick_ could actually use some support -)

Not a good train of thought.

Who else? Donna if he’s desperate, but Donna sided with Roy. Well. _Everyone_ sided with Roy. But Donna wants to convince Dick that it’s a _good_ thing that he’s out, and the awful thing is that she’s probably _right_ , it _is_ better for them, because Dick _was_ screwing everything up, and -

Not Donna.

Not Kory, either.

At first, Donna tried to cheer him up by suggesting that without the Titans, he’d have more time to help _Kory_ heal, but Kory didn’t want Dick to help her heal. Kory wanted space. Lots of space. A whole planet’s worth of space. And she hasn’t even told him where she’s gone, or if she’ll ever come back.

(They were going to be _married_. And, okay, it’s not like - he’d _known_ that she wanted to break up, but he _loved_ her, and he’d thought that she’d change her mind, and -)

Wally. There’s always Wally. Dick and Kory crashed at Wally’s place for a while, right after things with the Titans fell apart. He could call Wally. He still has one friend.

He doesn’t actually _want_ to call, though. Last time Dick saw Wally, Kory hadn’t taken off yet. Dick doesn’t want to talk about the breakup. And it’s not even just that. In their last case before Dick left, Wally made Dick the point-man - pretty transparent effort at making him feel better - and Dick made the wrong call, and somebody _died_ , and Chulo got away, and Dick had to chase him all the way back to New York. Wally didn’t blame him, but - it’s just -

Wally’s life is going so _well_ right now. Hero of Keystone City. Things with Linda going better than ever. It’s good, and Dick’s glad for him, and Wally deserves every bit of good luck he gets. But he doesn’t want to be the person dragging Wally down, and the idea of whining about his _own_ problems is sort of humiliating. _Help, I can’t handle Bruce’s costume even though you’ve been handling Barry’s for ages, and also my girlfriend dumped me, and she also left the planet I think. Sorry you wasted a trip to the wedding! And how is Linda? Are you moving in together yet?_

No thanks.

Alfred.

He could call Alfred.

He didn’t tell Alfred anything real, this year, too proud to admit what a mess his life was. But… but he _could_. Alfred would listen. Alfred has always listened. Alfred saw him through a million household mishaps and stupid fights with friends and days of self-doubt. And Alfred _believed_ in Dick, even when Bruce didn’t.

He dials Alfred’s number before he can talk himself out of it.

Then he dials again, thinking something’s gone wrong.

But it’s not an error.

Alfred’s number has been disconnected.

But.

That doesn’t make any _sense_.

Why would -

* * *

He tracks down a broom. And a mop. And a vacuum.

He calls again.

Still disconnected.

It’s not gonna _stop being disconnected_. That’s not how phones work. What kind of an idiot _are you_ -

* * *

 _Traveling_ , Bruce said.

 _Is he gonna come back when you do,_ Tim asked, and Bruce said, _No_.

The abandoned house. The closed look on Bruce’s face.

But.

How can -

Alfred can’t have just _left_. Okay, yes, _technically_ he’s just a butler so he _could_ have. But that’s never been _really_ true. Alfred basically raised Bruce. He basically raised _Dick_. He can’t have just _gone away_.

Without even a goodbye -?

* * *

Maybe he’s jumping to conclusions. Maybe Alfred just got a new phone. And Bruce is being cagey because Bruce is _always_ cagey, it’s a freaking reflex, and Alfred is on - on vacation, with his new phone. Yeah. Because that makes sense. Gotham falling to pieces, and Bruce’s back recently broken, and _that’s_ the time that Alfred has chosen to take a vacation. No _way_.

He tries to remember something, _anything_ , that Alfred said that would be some kind of clue.

All he can remember is Alfred talking about Tim. Always Tim.

Not Bruce, never Bruce. Not Gotham, either.

Bruce’s broken back, and Dick only found out the injury was serious because some Suicide Squad hacker tipped Wally off, and Wally told Dick. And then Dick only found out about the entire _Azrael_ disaster from Tim Drake.

Dick knew that _he_ was carefully sanitizing all his news for Alfred’s benefit, leaving out all the misery and heartbreak, trying to put a good face on it. But it never occurred to him that _Alfred_ could’ve been doing the same thing to _Dick_.

A fight with Bruce. It _must_ be a fight with Bruce. Alfred always used to do that - he had this idea that Dick needed to be protected from Alfred’s arguments with Bruce. They’d quarrel behind closed doors, in other rooms. Alfred’s been fighting with Bruce - a _bad_ fight, a really bad fight. And he didn’t want Dick to know.

It would explain why Bruce looked so haunted. Why he didn’t want to stay in the Manor.

It doesn’t explain why Alfred didn’t call _Dick_. Didn’t tell _him_ the new phone number. Didn’t tell him - _anything_.

Alfred is the closest thing to family that -

If even _Alfred_ doesn’t -

That’s it. There’s no one. There’s no one left.

It doesn’t feel real.

* * *

He’s gotten himself lost in the funk enough that when Tim finally _does_ show up, he almost sends the kid away, like a reflex. _Not now, busy brooding. Please come back later._

“Off-school early,” Tim says. The chirpy voice is at odds with the worried look in his eyes. “I thought maybe you could show me some of your martial arts moves?”

One of the many things that Dick _didn’t_ do this morning was figure out some kind of training plan for Tim.

“Not today,” he hedges. “Too much to do.”

This is a total lie. Or rather, it’s _not_ a lie - there _is_ a lot to do, like get up to speed on Gotham’s rogues and change his entire fighting style and figure out what to do about Tim - but Dick’s not doing any of it. What he _is_ doing is sweeping one of the dining rooms. He’s probably never gonna use this dining room. He’s not sure _Bruce_ ever used this dining room.

Tim Drake examines the dining room. “Where’s Alfred now that you need him?” he says ruefully.

It’s unsettlingly close to Dick’s thoughts. “I’ll get by,” he says aloud.

“I do wonder where he is, though. Around the world cruise, maybe? And with Bruce gone, too… it’s weird, isn’t it? So many changes. Do you think that -”

Is the kid _reading_ his _mind_? “Bruce told me a story once,” Dick says. “Two philosophers talked all day - and the _mess_ was still there in the morning.”

He throws the broom to the kid.

Or, you know. _At_ the kid.

(It’s been a long morning, okay?)

Tim looks startled for a half-second, but he _does_ manage to grab the broom, so at least his reflexes aren’t terrible.

“I’m gonna go get the mop and bucket from the other room,” Dick says aloud. “You finish sweeping in here.”

The kid brightens up a bit. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

Huh. Okay.

Dick mostly gave the kid the broom to get him to shut up - sweeping isn’t exactly training - and Tim’s enthusiasm is odd. Where did _that_ come from? Is the prospect of chores that exciting? 

… Come to think of it, the kid cheered up a bit yesterday when he was included in scrubbing the countertops, too.

* * *

They do clean-up for a bit.

It turns out that Tim Drake, despite being both willing and enthusiastic, does not actually know how to sweep. Or mop. Dick thought the principle of the _one_ would follow from the _other_ , but apparently not. 

And Dick gets him to help with stripping the sheets on all the beds, and they do laundry, and Tim studies the washing machine buttons like he thinks he’s gonna be tested on them.

And then when they break for a late lunch, and Dick recruits Tim to help with the cooking, the kid examines the stove like he thinks it’s gonna bite him.

It’s…

Okay. It’s kind of funny.

Apparently the boy genius isn’t a genius at _everything_. 

* * *

...It helps. Having company.

Dick doesn’t even hold it against the kid when he gets a text and - once again - sidles out of the room in order to answer it.

“It’s, um, just Ives,” Tim explains when Dick asks. “Sorry.”

“What did he want?”

“Oh, uh, nothing. What are we making?”

Tim Drake is apparently reflexively secretive. Well, fine. Dick’s a detective: he can deduce. He mentally sketches a conversation. _Hullo, Drake old chap, missing you terribly at Greenacre. Tennis just not the same without you._ And Tim: _feel the same way Ives, do give my best to your father, hope the stock prices are looking up_.

Actually, never mind. He knows how Tim Drake texts. Probably more like _so sorry can’t make tennis but please contact me tomorrow!!! Sincerely, Tim. PS best regards to your family, I broke into your house and left a card, pls text me before six so we can discuss stock prices very urgent!!!_

The thought’s amusing.

“What’s so funny?” Tim Drake asks.

“Nothing,” Dick says. “Get the eggs out, would you?”

* * *

For lunch, Dick makes omelettes, because he’s an adult and he gets to have omelettes in the afternoon if he wants to, and also because he has a hunch - a _correct_ hunch - that flipping them will impress Tim Drake.

“ _Cool_ ,” Tim says with feeling, before he remembers that he’s supposed to be a gala guest and goes back to stilted politeness. “You’re, um, very good at that.”

“I’m a person of many talents,” Dick says dryly.

Tim Drake’s gala voice is still annoying. But it’s reassuring to know there _is_ a real kid in there _somewhere_ , even if he’s mostly smothered in _Tim Drake, Junior Businessman_. And in the kid’s defense, Dick has _possibly_ brought this on by snapping at him too much. The kid wasn’t nearly this stiff in New York. So, hypothesis: maybe there _is_ a real kid, he just retreats to company manners when he’s feeling under pressure.

They eat.

“So,” Tim says after a bit. “How’d you learn to cook, anyway?”

“Recipe books,” Dick says, which isn’t actually true.

The truthful answer is that he doesn’t _really_ know how to cook much.

The other truthful answer is that he learned mostly through trial-and-error, once he was on his own, after getting kicked out. Trying to remember what he’d seen Alfred do, and sometimes checking online when he got it wrong. 

He never cooked much for himself, but he’d learned he liked making things for other people - for Kory, mostly, and sometimes the Titans. But even before leaving Gotham he’d known a _bit_ : “helping” Alfred in the kitchen, or even before, in the circus trailer, and Da had sworn by that old camping stove, and sometimes at night, they’d take it outside, and everyone crowding around - 

He forces the memories away.

Tim Drake’s watching him.

He feels weirdly exposed. _The kid is fourteen_, he reminds himself. _He can’t actually read your mind_.

“Anyway,” he says. “It’s not that hard. You could probably learn if you tried.”

“Did you ever cook at Titans Tower? Is there a kitchen there?”

“Yes,” Dick says unwillingly.

He doesn’t say anything else. Braces for another question.

But he must have given something away in his expression anyway, or his voice, because the kid pauses, screws up his face, and just _stares_ at him. Tilts his head to the side. Analyzing.

It’s incredibly unsettling.

Dick thinks, oddly enough, of a robin. Piercing, unblinking eyes.

“Why -” Tim begins, and then frowns down at his omelette, pokes it with a fork. But even though he’s bent his head, his eyes keep flickering up and over to Dick, under his lashes. Thinking hard.

Dick feels upsettingly transparent.

“So!” he says. “Training. You want to head down to the Cave after we eat?”

* * *

They head down.

Today goes better than yesterday, but only marginally.

Tim tells him, self-conscious, that he’s not a natural athlete. That’s an understatement. He’s not terrible for his age and background—but compared to Dick or Bruce or any of Dick’s old teammates, he’s a disaster. He’s anxious about heights. He’s uncertain with some of the equipment. He gets stuck in his head, overthinks, and moves too slowly.

It doesn’t help that he’s _extremely_ self-conscious.

He’s got Tim drilling kicks, which ought to be a solo activity, except that the kid keeps darting looks at him.

“Stop looking at me,” Dick says finally, exasperated, after the fifth or sixth time.

Tim flicks his gaze away instantly. Then turns back, looking conflicted. He mumbles something Dick can’t hear.

“What?”

“I don’t know if I’m doing it right,” Tim says more clearly. He’s got his shoulders braced as if for a blow. “The roundhouse kick. I can’t tell.”

Right. Dick _did_ tell him to ask for help. He didn’t notice any major issues with the form, but - “Do it again.”

Tim does.

“Fists a bit more up. And don’t lean back too far.”

Tim adjusts perfectly.

Dick makes a face despite himself.

Tim winces. “Am I still leaning back too far?”

“That’s not it. Your form’s fine,” Dick says. “But…” He tries to figure out how to put the problem into words. “You’re overthinking it. You can’t hesitate this much in a fight. It needs to be effortless. When you’re fighting, you can’t still be second-guessing your form. You have to be paying attention to your surroundings. Adjusting on the fly. A real enemy won’t stay put the way the punching bag does.”

Tim winces. “Right.”

He goes back to practicing, but the surreptitious looks don’t stop. And like most people when they start overthinking something they _know_ how to do, Tim’s his own worst enemy. He’s making mistakes he shouldn’t be making.

This isn’t good. Jumpy, edgy, uncertain - the kid has the fundamentals down, at least, but even that’s no good if he can’t relax enough to trust his instincts. If anything, he’s _worse_ than he was last night.

None of Tim’s problems are unfixable. With hard work, with practice, with time, he’ll get better. The moves will come more automatically, and he’ll stop tripping himself up.

But they don’t _have_ time.

Dick needs to figure out a way for them to win fights _now_ , not a month from now, when Dick’s more used to the Batman costume and Tim’s more confident. He needs to work with the people they _are_ , not the people they could be. Practice and retraining is a _long-_ term plan. Watching Tim do drills makes that more obvious. Tim’s not gonna suddenly transform into an gifted fighter any more than _Dick’s_ gonna suddenly transform into a powerhouse. You can’t actually change your entire fighting style on a dime.

So for the short-term, what Dick needs is better _strategy_.

But _what_?

After an hour of drilling, he still doesn’t have any good ideas, and he doesn’t want to tire Tim out before they even go out to patrol, so he calls a halt.

For a half-second Tim Drake looks almost panicked before he covers it up.

“I’m a lot better than this usually,” Tim says. “And I’ll get better. And I can come in the afternoon tomorrow and practice too. You don’t have to supervise me. If you just tell me what to work on, I can do it on my own.” Pause, then, urgently: “I can _help_. After the Arkham break-out, there are still a lot of escapees. I can watch your back. It’ll be better with two of us.”

He looks like he’s braced for an argument, or a dismissal, like Dick’s gonna say, _no, never mind, get lost, while I completely fail at being Batman all by my lonesome_.

The urgent appeal crystallizes the _other_ problem with Tim Drake.

Tim’s nervous. Really nervous. And it’s not helping.

The kid _is_ usually better than this. Dick’s teamed up with Tim Drake before, and yeah, he wasn’t paying _close_ attention, and granted, nothing was quite as dangerous as Killer Croc, but... he _knows_ they did better than they did last night. Definitely better than the kid’s been doing today.

In retrospect, snapping at him all day yesterday: maybe not Dick’s best move ever.

“Hey. Kid.”

Tim Drake looks wary. “What?”

Dick tries to find the right words. He used to think he was _good_ at this team-building stuff. With the Titans. Lately it feels like he can’t get anything right. But he ought to at _least_ be able to reassure a fourteen-year-old.

“Just - don’t forget that we’re in this _together_ ,” Dick settles on. “Like I told you last night. We’re _partners_. I’m not your boss, and I’m gonna need you out there with me. I know Bruce is all about the tests, but _I’m_ not testing you, and you can’t fail, got it? I’m just trying to work out what you can do. So just - calm down a bit, okay? I’m not gonna send you home or fire you or whatever you think is gonna happen.”

Tim looks sort of rueful. “Am I that obvious?”

Well, how about that. Maybe Dick can read the kid okay after all.

“I was Robin once too, remember?” he says aloud. “I do have an idea what it’s like.”

Tim makes a face. “You were way better than me, though.”

The insecurity’s surprising, even though he _knew_ the kid was nervous. “You’re doing fine.”

He tries to think. Team-bonding activity. The kid desperately needs to relax a bit, and honestly, Dick would like to get out of the Cave - and the Batman costume - himself. He doesn’t really feel like more chores upstairs, but… 

“Look,” Dick says. “We’ve got two hours until sunset, and I don’t know about you, but _I_ need a break. Why don’t you come with me to the grocery store and we’ll pick up some more food? If you’re gonna be eating over here anyway, we should get some stuff you like.”

Tim looks mortified, which is kind of funny given that he’s been pretty shameless about joining in on meals until now. “You don’t have to! I don’t - I mean - I have food at home, you don’t need to -”

“Kid. _Tim_. _Relax_ , okay?”

“You _really_ don’t -”

“ _Robin_ ,” Dick says, because that’s what _Bruce_ used to say when Dick argued too much.

It’s still kind of weird, calling somebody else by that name. But it works like a charm. Tim straightens instinctively. Ready for orders.

This is really insane. His own personal Robin.

“We’re gonna go get food,” Dick says in his best I-am-Team-Leader voice.

“Okay.”

“ _You_ are gonna tell me what you want.”

Tim still looks like he wants to protest, but Dick stares him into submission. “Okay.”

Dick hesitates, but there’s nothing else for it. And again, making a point. “You’re gonna have to help me get this costume off first.”

Tim ducks his head and smiles, shy and fast as quicksilver. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

* * *

Tim Drake is as awkward in the grocery store as he was with a broom.

“Do you like pineapple on pizza?” Dick asks in the frozen food aisle.

Tim eyes him suspiciously. “Do _you_ like it?”

 _It’s not a trick question_ , Dick wants to say. “I do, yeah.”

Tim nods like he’s received a verdict from on high. “We should get some, then.”

Hmm. This could be funny, actually. “How do you feel about jalapeños? We could make chicken and jalapeño sandwiches.” Dick could probably find some _really spicy_ jalapeños.

Tim nods, frowning. Dick has the distinct impression he’s taking mental notes.

“And mint chocolate chip ice cream,” Dick says. And, taking a guess at why the kid’s so fixated on his food choices: “It’s very good for building muscle.”

Tim looks alert. Bingo. “It is?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Dick says. “Chocolate is _chock_ -full of good ingredients.”

“I didn’t know -” Tim begins, before he catches the pun and looks kind of repressive. Mini-Bruce. Extremely small Mini-Bruce. “You’re not serious,” Tim decides after a moment.

 _Good catch, boy genius._ “No,” Dick concedes. “What do you usually eat?”

Tim has to think about it. “Um. Just whatever Mrs. Mac makes?”

 _Such_ a rich kid. At least he’s not insisting that they dine on caviar. “What kind of sandwich meat do you like?”

A bit later, the shopping cart’s got a decent pile of _Dick’s_ favorite foods, and he’s mostly given up on asking for input. Extracting personal preferences from Tim Drake is like pulling teeth. The kid is still giving off the distinct impression he thinks he’s gonna be judged on his answers. Or maybe he’s just used to outsourcing all his food choices to the help?

When they get to the juice aisle, Dick tells him he can pick the brand of orange juice, mostly because he’s curious whether the kid will actually make a decision. Tim obediently starts investigating the orange juice labels.

Aaaand continues to inspect the orange juice labels.

Dick mentally tries to calculate the odds that Tim Drake has ever been in a grocery store before. How rich _are_ the Drakes?

“Hey, Tim!” somebody calls. 

Dick glances down the aisle, wondering if they’ve been spotted, but no: it’s a teenager, but Dick would lay odds he’s looking for a _different_ Tim. Kid’s a tall, gangly redhead who looks a bit older than Tim Drake, but that’s not why. This is: the random kid is wearing a) the biggest glasses that Dick has _ever_ seen, and b) a mismatched sweater vest and tie that both look thrifted. 

“TIM,” Nerd Kid says. “Tim Drake!”

Hmm. Or on second thought, maybe it _is_ this Tim.

Tim’s still staring at the orange juice, apparently calculating something.

Dick nudges him. Tim startles so badly he almost knocks something over - _jumpy_ kid - and then turns and goes wide-eyed.

“Earth to Tim Drake!” Nerd Kid says cheerfully. “Permission to open communications, Captain?”

He’s got a faint Russian accent on his _r’s_ , but he says the _th_ fine, plus the thrifted clothes, which in Gotham normally means second-generation Russian immigrant, except that he’s _here_. Dick feels the bizarre urge to check that they’re still in Bristol and not inner-city Little Odessa.

What’s _really_ surreal, though, is that the kid is beaming at preppy little _Tim Drake_ , who’s about a head shorter than him.

“Ives,” Tim Drake says. He looks kind of stunned, too. “You’re… here.”

 _Ives_? _Sebastian_ Ives?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon: in Flash 81-83, post-firing but pre-breakup, Dick and Kory stay with Wally for a bit, but Wally’s disastrous attempt at cheering Dick up inadvertently makes him feel _worse_ , and Dick heads off to NY blaming himself for Chulo’s murders. Wally reflects: “How weird. It's like talking to the ghost of Dick Grayson. He used to be confidence personified. Being ousted by the Titans...it really rattled him.” Wally and Linda, meanwhile, are closer than ever.
> 
> Also canon: every _other_ bad thing that’s happening with Dick’s friendships, Alfred cutting off contact with Dick as well as Bruce (and with no warning!), Dick being really hurt by this, and the anonymous Suicide Squad hacker (whose identity might be significant).
> 
> Finally, at some point in Prodigal, Dick and Tim buy matching orange juice cartons, Tim is canonically enthusiastic about being given a broom, and Ives - in the Robin miniseries - is a tall, red-headed nerd from Little Odessa who tends to alert Tim to his presence by calling his name multiple times until Tim finally jolts to awareness.
> 
> Next up: Ives!  
>  _Okay, Dick has definitely missed a step here. Several steps. If Sebastian Ives is a trust-fund kid, Dick will eat the Riddler's hat._


End file.
